Deepkin Codex
by Mr. Dot
Summary: A Codex about Uncorrupted Skaven, their origins, society, how they make war and their most prominent battles
1. Chapter 1

_**Skaven Deepkin **_

An island of sanity in a sea of darkness, the Deepkin Skaven are the last remnants of an uncorrupted past. They stand fast against the tiranny of the Horned Rat, clinging to their own purity with zealous tenacity. Where the Corrupted Ones are craven and gutless, they are honorable and brave; where their lost brethren are treacherous and backstabbing, the Deep Ones hold the greatest faith for home and family. They battle endlessly to keep their enclaves safe, pitting what might they can gather against a hostile world and a hateful God that would see even the memory of their existence wiped off the pages of history. It's a terrible crusade that the Deepkin face, their dream a future when the corruption infesting their race is undone forever. Their foes are legions, but still they go, with only the dimmest of hopes to lead them. And still, in the dark, a Goddess that only they remember watches over them, and even the deepest seed can, in time, find its way to the light…

**Origins**

Long time ago, Doom came to a city called Kavzar, upon the peals of a great Bell. How and what happened doesn't matter to this story. What it matters to know is that Kazvar was a great and fair city and as Doom passed over it, darkness enveloped it, deep and twisted as brilliant and pure its light had been.

It was there that the Skaven came into existence for the first time. When Kavzar shone into his full glory, they were rats, scuttling into the sewers beneath the city, living into the darkness. When the Bell sounded, hunger and fury seized them. In their thousands, big and small, they rushed out of their holes, a living tide of furious chittering. They flooded the halls of the Dwarves that lived under Kavzar and devoured its inhabitants, ripping them apart until only bones remained.

Their hunger unabated, the swarm rushed to the surface, only to find their way blocked by the gates of the hold. Even in their deaththroes, the dwarfs had managed to seal them shut. Powerful wards covered them and no matter how much the living tide slammed and gnawed at it, they wouldn't budge.

Maddened by hunger and fury, the swarm cursed and begged with a single voice, that someone, something, anything allowed them to feast over the bounty of flesh that they could recall to live into the city.

Something answered. And that was the first prayer.

Dark, subtle, it didn't move with a battering force, smashing the gates asunder; instead, forced the men of Kazvar themselves to open them. The fools, driven to despair by days of unending unnatural rain, came to the hold in search of the dwarves' help. They found only hideous death, their screams drowned by the hideous chittering of a thousand maws.

And so it was that Kavzar passed from history, her last glimmer of glory ripped apart by maddened frenzy flooding her streets. Long the banquet went on. The rats consumed flesh and tendons, and then fell upon the bones, crunching them open, sucking out marrows and gobbling down the rest, until nothing more remained.

But not even death could save the slain. Their souls, ensnared by the maelstrom of violence and despair, were forced to remain into the city. Wailing in anguish, they were forced to see their own bodies being consumed while feeling like their deaths were being replayed upon them again and again.

And then, a terrible trasformation happened.

Each soul was dragged toward a rat, each slain chained to its devourer. Soul of man and dwarf fell upon soul of unthinking animal, and a fusion happened, each of the elements destroyed and remade into a new whole.

The rats rose on two legs, but they were rats no longer; there were only the Skaven now, rat-kin, the Vermins That Walk.

The Doom of Kazvar was complete, and a presence observed all, silently.

**The Rise of the Vermin-Kin**

Legends still told today by the Deep Ones, says that at the beginning, the Skaven were like children. They had no recollection of any past life and had no idea of the world before them. Following their lingering istincts, they joined together and made the silent city their home. Males and females lived side by side, as equal and not one slave of the other. Their souls weren't tainted nor their thoughts evil; their minds moved by a union of the animal insticts proper of the rat, and the faults and blessings allowed by sentience. Both evil and good dwelled in them, and they were free to choose either.

So, they bred and multiplied, and, as more and more of the city became theirs, they worked, built and learned. They formed into tribes, with the strongest and most cunning acting as chieftains. Malformed rat-things, descended by those rats that hadn't received a soul, made up their sustenance, with the first Skaven sheperding them in great herds or hunting them through the streets of the ruined city.

This was a period of growing and learning. The Skaven weren't many and didn't multiply as quickly as they would later. They never made war upon each other and helped each other as best as they could.

Things started to change with the emerging of the first Dreamers.

The Dreamers were Skaven touched by the divine. Falling into deep slumbers, they were able to send their minds into the spirit world, and to hear the whispers of the deities dwelling there. It was them that revealed to the Skaven the existence of the soul, and of Gods that had created them and were to be worshipped.

The stories says that two Skaven were the first of these prophets, a male and a female, each speaking for the two Gods that watched over the Skaven race: a Father, grim and ferocious, and a Mother, loving and compassionate.

Witnessins the uneartly power bestowed by the two entities upon the Dreamers, the first Skaven were quickly swayed to their adoration. The two Deities taught them much, about the world and themselves, and the arts that they could use to improve their lives.

Great temples were raised to honour the Gods, the rocks of their buildings mined from the city itself. The Dreamers arose to be the leaders of their people, and under their guidance the first Skaven civilization prospered.

The Skaven filled the entire city, and then dug under it to make more space for their growing numbers. Only the enormous tower at the center of their domains they never reached for, the laws of the Dreamers banning everyone from it under pain of death. Still, it wasn't a heavy burden since the aura of evil that sorrounded the place was more than enough to keep any Skaven caring for his tail away from it.

**The Staining**

Many songs of the Deepkin recall with sorrow and longing this era of peace and purity, with only few ever hoping that the world will see it return once again. It was destiny, it seems, that it was to last only for a short while.

Gaining momentum from their prosperity, the Skaven bred and multiplied, until not even their digging was enough to allow space for everybody.

This proved to be more than a simple conundrum.

The surface world was filled with danger and enemies, and many prophecies, mumbled by the greatest Dreamers during their trances, warned of a great disaster that would befall the Skaven race when the time for them to step out of their ancestral lands came. The rat-kin were deathly scared of venturing in the outside world, and so other solutions were searched.

Coming together, the Dreamers communed with their Gods and found a solution, albeit a dangerous one. Still, such was their terror for their people that they readily took it.

Using the teachings of their deities, a great machine was assembled; it was to channel the power of the magic flowing into the world to open great fissures and rents into the earth under the city, in which the Skaven could expand and prosper.

The day came, and the Skaven sorcerers chanted their incantations and activated their great machine. The earth trembled and for a glorious moment, the scheme seemed to work. Great fissures began to open into the earth, already showing new ways for the Skaven to expand.

But the machine, even if powerful beyond mortal mind, was imperfect. The wards shielding it failed, and a gargantuan amount of magic blasted out of it into an apocalyptic explosion. Mountains shook and crumbled. Vulcans long-dormant woke to wrathful life once again. The devastation shook the entirety of the Old World, but those events go outside of this story.

When the dust settled, only a few Skaven managed to claw their way out of the earth, gazing over the devastation that had been wrought. Their city, all of their works had been undone; their numbers, once great, were now few.

Heart-broken, the survivors searched for the counsel of the few Dreamers that had survived, in particular of those that had voiced their opposition against the use of the Machine.

Those made up the overhelming majority of the survivors and of these many belonged to the only male priesthood of the Father. Restraining the few Dreamers not part of their group, this faction pointed to the catastrophe as an unforgivable fault. With the rabid approval of the survivors, they seized power and had all the still living Dreamers that had backed up the ill-fated project executed.

Under the guidance of this group, upon which the male priests that most fervently had called for the executions held the major sway, the Skaven attempted to rebuild what it had been destroyed. But they were few now and the devastation occurred made their efforts ever difficult, the still trembling earth making difficult for any stable building to be erected. Furthermore, the remains of the Great Machine, even buried under mountains of rock, kept on leaking harmful radiations of magic that afflicted them. Diseases and mutations soon ran rampant. Many children were born already dead or bearing horrible deformities. The animals upon which the Skaven relied for sustenance, if not already killed by the catastrophe, began to mutate into ravening monstrosisties that had to be put down.

Those were dark days for the Skaven.

Despair and hunger spread like a wildfire, each ratman fighting with his brother for the scarse sustenance available. The Dreamers tried to keep the survivors united, but their authority had been heavily wounded by the disaster and many chieftains rebelled against them. To oppose this, they used their god-given powers to bring harm, destroying the rebels and imposing iron laws that none could defy.

This state of being brought the most ruthless of them to the fore, often the same ones that had most fervently asked for the executions of their brethren. They became tyrants where before they had been teachers and guides. These were always males, as the female only priests of the Mother were sworn to a binding oath to never use their powers against their own people.

The ancient legends of the Deepkin disagree upon what really happened then.

Some say that the death and despair of so many of his beloved children had blackened the heart of the Father, replacing what love and mercy existed into it with hatred and fury. Others say that the Father had been wicked from the beginning and that this was only a long-awaited chance fostered and planned for his dominance to come. They point to the fact that the Machine was built imperfect and affirm that it was a deliberate lie in the istructions handed to the Dreamers rather than a failure from the sorcerers to make it so. Others again mantain that another, unseen force was to blame for it, that the catastrophe was but only the crowning glory of a terrible scheme put in motion centuries before and then brought to its most horrible conclusion.

None of this version has definitive proof behind it and maybe the truth will never come to the light.

What the songs are certain about is that the dominant male Dreamers started to announce that, if they would listen, the Father would save them from their suffering. A covenant was called, a binding of the souls of all Skaven to the Father, more tight than anything before. This compact had to be sealed with the renunciation of the Skaven to the Mother, as the Father would save them only if they worshipped him and him alone. The shed blood of the female Dreamers, weaklings that wouldn't use their powers to help their people in need, was also called for. Accept these conditions and the Father would relieve them of their suffering once and for all; deny it and he would abandon them to death and despair.

Many Skaven were dismayed by this proposal, but many more saw it as a chance for salvation. The Father had always embodied the strenght and resistance of their people. Before him, the kindness of the Mother seemed a truly paltry thing now. The female priesthood had always laboured for them, but hadn't the majority of them worked the Machine? And what was their little blood before the chance that their children could survive?

A decision was reached.

In a single, terrible night, all the female Dreamers were dragged to sacrifical altars and slain, their blood falling to form large pools. Every temple, every effigy to the Mother was defaced, desacrated and destroyed. The Skaven gave themselves fully to the Father, and the abominable compact was sealed.

Before all the gathered Skaven, the gates of the Shattered Tower at the center of the city were flung open and twelve figures stepped out, eerily backlit by the mystical lights within the temple. With a single voice, they announced that the time had come for the Skaven to become what they were destined to be. The Horned Rat, the new name the Father was to be called, had whispered his will and now it was time for it to become reality.

The twelve rat-lords' booming voices had just stopped echoing over the ruined city that a second, terrible trasformation happened.

None of the Skaven had really understood what the compact would mean, their despair enough to push them to accept regardless of the conseguences. Now, those conseguences fell upon them, as their souls were seared by the claws of their wicked deity. As they writhed in pain, everything of good was scraped away of them, leaving only hunger, fear, selfishness, arrogance and madness. They were remade and blackened, as their own God had been remade and blackened. They would make beasts of their females, a last, horrible act of spite of a mad God toward his lost mate; they would forget honour, friends and family, all of their thought pushed only to survival and the lording over others; they would make sport of the pain of souls and a playground of bodies and flesh. They would forget truth and embrace lies. They would writhe in loathing and fear, never to reach peace, with salvation forever out of their sight.

And it was so that the Skaven were lost.

But not all of them.

_Dawn, he had loved. Since he was a ratling, he would sit by the door of a house or on top of some ruined tower and watch how dawn would paint the city in soft gold and red. The sight would make his heart burn with emotion._

_But now, the city had fallen into a sinkhole and a thick mist was coming to envelope it. The heart of the one that had been watching over it had been blackened and it had blackened everything else. Dawn wouldn't come anymore to the broken city._

_The axe gave a wet crunch when he extracted it from his latest kill. The priest turned to the rest of his slain brothers. Even in death, there still was murder and madness in their eyes. His heart throbbed painfully, but he was behind pain by now. _

_The priest sniffed, giving the trio of priestesses a nod. The three scurried out of their hiding place, hurrying to free the prisoners detined to the sacrifical knife. _

_The priest didn't join them, his attention focused on eventual more aggressors. _

_His heart gave a last throb, then stopped, clenching into a fist of iron and ice. He nodded approvingly, and watched the darkening sky. Then, he said the last words he would ever utter. _

_"The Dawn will be reborn." _

**The Exile**

While the unholy ceremony was being held, a small group of Skaven was climbing the last of the cliff of the enormous depression in which the catastrophe had made collapse their city. A trio di priestesses and a lone priest led them.

Bedraggled, covered in dust, they really made for a poor view. When they all reached the summit, they turned to look at the city beneath them. The ruins of the city were lit by an eerie glow, her streets invaded by a dark miasma. They all shivered at the sight, their hearts beating painfully in their chests. Only the priest didn't turn to look.

They remained like that for a few moments, then one of the priestesses called, and they turned their backs into the city and walked forever away from their homeland.

Many Deepkin legends speaks of the Exile, the long journey in search of a new home for those that had refused the covenant. They say that a trio of priestesses, warned by a vision sent from the Mother, gathered as much Skaven as they could, those that not even the most grievious despair could bring to do what the Father aksed from them, and ran away from the city in secret. It is said that the Mother herself laid a veil upon this small group, hiding them from the gaze of the maddened Father.

Many songs are still played today about their journey, how it brought them across the world and then down into the bowels of the earth, far enough that not even a God could find them; they speak of legendary battles against terrible monsters, of acts of courage and selflessness, pointing much how the Skaven brought to salvation by the Mother were the strongest and bravest, those that no despair could break. Many a song raise praises to the trio of priestesses, that, following visions of the Mother, led this group of survivors along the journey. Others, entangled with sorrow, sing of the lonely priest, of his oath of silence, of his grim strenght, of his broken but stubborn heart.

Eventually, after a long and arduous journey lasting decades, the Uncorrupted Skaven reached the land promised to them by the Mother. There, in the deepest chasms under the World's Edge Mountain, they founded Haven, the first of the Great Burrows, and set to nurse their wounds and to rebuild. For the next several hundred of years, they would be building their strenght and numbers, waiting for the moment to come back to the light.

_Rikkit took in the strange creature's appearance with wariness. Long as a cart and almost as large, furry, with a big rodent muzzle; its eyes protunded like big drops of dew. The strange creature kept almost in costant motion, sniffing and looking around. _

_From his position atop the cliff, Rikkit watched it reach the bowl of soup that he had left fall by mistake. _

_The disappointment of seeing his lunch disappear in that thing's gullet was quickly replaced by interest. The big animal seemed absolutely estatic of the slop, licking it all with enthusiasm._

_Rikkit scratched his head, and watched the rough basket he had been using to carry bricks; an idea came to him._

_"Rikkit?" Another Skaven called, this one with a big hat qualifying him as a foreman. "What are you doing there? Come back here. Lunchtime is over."_

_"I got an idea, chief!"_

_"Mh?" _

**The Growing **

Following the instructions of the twelve Lords of Decay, the Skaven spread far and wide across the world, so that never more they would risk to be wiped out from one of their imperfect machines. They called this period the Great Sniff. Mirroring their lost brethren, the Deepkin did the same, but in a much more organized and contained fashion. In fact, they lacked the means of reproducing as quickly as their corrupted brothers - that owe it to hideous alterations wrought upon their females - and desired to keep their society as united as possible.

During a process lasting centuries, they spread across the entirety of the southern half of the World's Edge Mountains, their tunnels reaching under the Land of the Dead and as far as the Kingdom of Beasts far in the west. They made all of this in the utmost secrecy, using their magic to dig their tunnels under those used by their corrupted brethren or, when that was impossible, masking themselves as ordinary Skaven. The chaos inherent into the larger Skaven society played greatly to their advantage, so much that many centuries would pass before their existence was even suspected.

When the First Skaven Civil War broke through the Under-Empire, the Deepkin used the confusion to extend their grip over the eastern part of the Southlands, reaching the southern jungles through great controlled migrations. They battled principally Beastmen and feral Lizardmen during these periods, as well as the occasional undead army sent by a overzealous Tomb King to try and scour some tunnels clean of ratmen; but they always made sure as to not alert their lost kin, arriving even to the point of sending Lodges to battle against or with the invading Pestilens, always masquerading as "normal" Skaven clan.

_Skaven females_

_"Female" is not a word that the Skaven have nor comprehend. For them, there are only Skaven Broomother, the idiotic, horribly bloated monsters that act as factories for the countless masses teeming into the Under-Empire. This a terrible blasphemy for the Deepkin, that put the freedom of their enslaved brethren between their highest aspirations. _

_A female Deepkin is no much different from a male Deepkin, that is a tough and robust Skaven. The biggest differences are softer features and a higher attitude for magic than males. Strangely, they possess on average longer tails than their male counterparts, making these for very useful appendages. _

_Females Deepkin's sturdy frames make so that they don't disdain from work or fighting,- Deepkin society doesn't make any preferences based on gender, partly because it simply cannot afford to. It still puts some limitation about the number of females that can put themselves to risk, though - eagerly joining the soldiery coming out of their belonging Lodges. They still possess a powerful maternal instict and it's rare the female Skaven - or Kor, as they are called in the Deepkin language - that hasn't good mate and a big litter of ratlings by the time that youth start to wane. _

This state of being continued until the time the Skaven brought the Black Plague over the Empire.

Unburdened by conflict with their corrupted kin and stretched far, the Deepkin started to splinter, each Great Burrow looking more and more only to its interest. After having brought them to salvation, a time that now was far behind, the Mother hadn't spoken to her children anymore if not in nebulous whispers and so not even the authority of her priesthood was enough to quell the rising unrest. Tension rose and even occasional inter-fighting erupted between the original government centred into Haven and the Burrows hoping to carve their own independent domains. The situation became so bad that it almost looked that the Deepkin were to fall into a civil war just like their corrupted kin.

Worried, the leaders of Haven called for a great meeting of all the most important personalities of the Deepkin Under-Kingdom, to try and find for a peaceful solution. Warlords, High Priestesses and Commanders hoping to carve their own domains assembled into a single hall, together with all those of their equal ranks that pushed strongly for an united Kingdom under the absolute control of Haven. Tension was sky-high, factions entrenched on their positions were already formed and everywhere those of war-like tendency stood prominent; there were many that, as the doors of the hall closed shut and the works began, thought that nothing would come out of it but a renewed breaking of bonds.

What it happened defied any expectation.

For an entire day the meeting went on, the populace outside anxiously waiting as hour after hour passed. The scheduled pauses for meals and rest went and passed, and the doors remained closed. Guards paced, at unease, but nobody dared to interrupt such an important meeting. Eventually, though, any hesitation was put aside, and a Skaven went to knock. There was no answer. He tried to open the door, but they were blocked and won't budge.

Alarm spread. Locksmiths were called, but the doors refused to open, no matter what ministration their locks received. Smiths were called, but their hammer and tools broke against the hinges. In desperation, the guards called for siege experts. A battering ram was quickly assembled and the Deepkin went to work against the gates like they were trying to smash through an enemy fortress. An iron-cap had to be affixed to the ram before the unnaturaly tough gates were smashed open.

The Skaven swarmed inside, worried out of their minds for their leaders, only to stop immediately on their tracks.

The meeting hall was a disaster. Benches were broken, chairs were in pieces, papers were scattered everything. Forget battles, it looked like a hurricane had plowed through it. And everywhere, spread like after the greatest melee ever seen from the beginning of the world, all the participants of the meetings, warlords and commanders and high priestesses with all their guards, littered the hall, all of them groaning and moaning and whining.

Even now, it's still a mistery of what has actually happened inside of that hall. Some of the first guards rushing inside said that they thought to have seen a glimpse of a traslucent figure at the center of the hall, just for a moment before it disappeared. That brought to the popular idea that it had been the Mother herself, seeing her children squabbling like morons and that nothing was coming out from that meeting, to come down to knock some sense into the heads of everybody. None of the actual present ever admitted if that was the truth, each of them bringing what had seen into the tomb, but that version stuck and many a song was composed about it.

Whatever had happened, all the leaders convened for the meeting - after a more or less quick sojourn into various hospitals - met together again and this time, very strangely, a general agreement was rapidly found.

_The two ratlings were holding each other, almost looking they were about to die of laughter._

_Old Krak smiled, showing his chipped teeth._

_"You laugh now." He said, amusement in his voice. "But we didn't laugh then, Why, the councilor almost died of fright there and then. He thought they had killed each other!" _

_The ratlings' ilarity only redoubled. _

_Old Krak watched with a grin, waiting for them to calm down. _

_"And… and then?" One of the two, the one with a twinkle in the eyes, asked._

_Old Krak rolled the pipe with his tongue. His gaze become lost in the past as he recalled more._

_"Then…"_

A Great Council was estabilished, formed by representatives from each of the Great Burrows. They would meet to discuss matters regarding the entirety of the Deepkin domain, so that never more the Deep Ones would risk to make war upon each other.

And still, the political changes were almost minor before those of the soul.

After the long silence, the Mother returned to her children in full. In a single night passed to the annals as the Night of Revelations, the entirety of her Haven priesthood and many of the Deepkin all throurough the Domain experienced a vision of their deity. None but the priestesses actually remembered what the Mother spoke of, but each Deepkin rose the next day with a renewed sense of purpose and hope. The priestesses declared that the time of Growing was to enter into a new stage, and that the Mother had blessed her children so that their efforts could meet with final success. These blessings would come later on stage, most notably as the so-called Skaven Patriarchs and Matriarchs.

Furthermore, the priestesses announced that a Council wasn't enough to keep the Deepkin united and that a single ruler would need to be estabilished, one that would bear the blessing of the Mother in full. Who this ruler should be, the priestesses didn't say, no matter how hardly pressed; they only revealed that he would appear at the right time.

_The Deepkin Shaskar _

_The Shaskar are the priestesses of the Mother, and administer to her cult since the fondation of their order by the trio of Dreamers that led the first Deepkin into Exile. They are an only female order and wield great magical power bestowed upon them by their deity. _

_Being a highly religious people, the Deepkin hold them in high respect as wise and powerful figures, and eagerly lend them their ear. This capacity to influence their peers and the strong presence in Deepkin society has given them a great political and social weight. _

_As the Deepkin expanded, the order followed closely, forming an articulated network of abbeys and churches in every Burrow and across every major route. Always a heavily decentralized structure, the order didn't respond to a single authority, but every community tended to be autonomous. _

_Still, a particularity was soon to emerge._

_The more the order expanded from Haven the more their connection to their Goddess diminished, if not their powers. For this reason, the Shaskar trained at the First Burrow retained a deep belief in their purpose of custodians of Deepkin soul and unity, while all the other communities increasingly slipped into secularism, their religious fervor waning in favor of the research of material power._

_Eventually, powerful Sects were born, each taking control of the religious life of a section of the domain, some becoming strong enugh as to become independet Kingdom of their own right. _

_Only with the Great Assembly and the unity it brought, the order was brought back together. _

_After their announcing, the bulk of the community left Haven and spread all across the Deepkin domain, seeking to reattach the bonds with their dispersed sects and, in short, centralize their order once again after the dispersal that had almost brought to a civil war. It was a lenghty process, but the visions shared by almost all the priestesses made so that it happened almost without any opposition. The Church of the Radiant Goddess was founded short after, divided into provinces each led by a Ur-Shaskar, that, on their turn, met into a General Chapter that held supreme authority upon all matter religious. The Ur-Shaskar of Haven holds moral prominence during this meeting, and the community of Haven itself is highly renowned, its members being mages and healers of singular power and wisdom that still retains a privileged contact with the Mother. _

_Still, there are many that thought that this unity wasn't the priestesses' only objective. There are many tales of cowled Shaskar stalking the farthest corner of the domain, appearing seemingly from nowhere to guide lost travelers to salvation or give wise advices to generals and commanders. Today is thought that they were searching for the one that would make the perfect ruler for the domain, a grand research that they followed with tireless tenacity. _

One hundred and one year was to pass before the Deepkin that would be Ruler was found.

Named Pantagrel, he was the seventh son of a seventh son, but a lowly warrior living into a small Burrow to the southern border. He ascended to the throne in Haven under the blessing of the Mother and the entirety of the Shaskar order, the first Under-King of the United Under-Kingdom of the Uncorrupted Ones.

Any doubts about the lowly origin of the new King was quickly set aside, as Pantagrel led an army to utterly annihilate a massive army of Beastmen that had invaded the Kingdom in numbers unprecedented. The King himself felled a terrible Gorgon and took its skull as a trophy.

As well a mighty warrior and a savvy general, Pantagrel showed himself to be a great ruler, and under him the Under-Kingdom thrived as never before. Under his kingdom, the practice of creating Patriarchs and Matriarchs went fully into work and even more Deepkin decided to embark into the difficult journey required to become one of those fearsome warriors, going then to estabilish their own Lodges on turn.

**Recent days**

More centuries has passed and the Under-Kingdom has continued to amass knowledge and to build up into strenght, at the same time repelling any invader that dared to encroach upon its borders.

Under the last of the Under-Kings, Lontheus the Enormous, a ruler that many think as great as the first of his predecessors, the Deepkin has finally moved against their corrupted brethren, starting their crusade toward the purification of their entire race.

The entire Under-Empire shake to the stomps of masses of brawny Deepkin soldiers covered from head to toes with heavy armor. The massive forms of the Patriarchs and Matriarchs led them, their laughters and songs raising strong and clear against evil and corruption. Wings of Breezeriders slither on the flanks, ready to unleash flaming death upon their enemies or even to take to the sky on a moment's notice. Burly Molers form up into lines, their armored forms ready to be unleashed into bone-crunching charges by their riders. Chanting Shaskar priestesses follow, their bodies crackling with energies kept under tight control and ready to be unleashed to heal the brave soldiers or to destroy the enemies of the Under-Kingdom. The Mages-Engineers push clanking machines into battle, the greatest of which is powerful enough to rival every monster the world can muster. Keen-eyed Warlords coordinate the strenghts of the host, making so that it can be much more than the simple sum of all its parts. The Strenghbeares beat their drums, giving rythm and courage to everybody; and the Goddess watches over all her children, no darkness deep enough to estinguish the brightness of her eyes.

The Deepkin cry their defiance, singing and laughing in the face of evil. The Horned Rat hisses with hatred at seeing his long-thought lost mate return to claim the heart of the Skaven. The Deepkin march, and the underworld trembles.

_**The Lost Kin of the Depth **_

As the larger Skaven population, the Deepkin too are bipedal ratmen, are covered in close fur except for their hands, ears, puzzle and tails; and they move with the same hunched gait. The similarities end there, though. The usual Deepkin is larger and tougher of build than his corrupt counterpart, even the smallest reaching in height as a far as a Stormvermin, with the largest managing to reach the 6-7 feet of height. All in all, he would appear as a more civilized version of the corrupt Skaven, with better groomed fur and a more muscular form. Their eyes glint with a range of colours to torchlight, with a preference for gold and blood red, but each of them possesses a particular clear quality.

Deepkin's metabolism burn strong, but not at a ferocious pace. They exude less energy and twitch less than their corrupt counterpart, lacking part of their speed but macking up for it with much greater endurance and overall strenght. They need to eat less and the Black Hunger is much less frequent for them, requiring for them to actually risk to starve to death to trigger it. In fact, it's a great source of shame for a Deepkin to lose himself to the pangs of the Black Hunger. They

live much longer than the other Skaven, managing to arrive even to fifty years. Growing older, they tend to grow fatter and bulkier, only getting stronger.

Strangely enough, all the Deepkin has a great penchant for music of all kind. Be out of stringed, brassed or other, more exotical instruments, they love them all.

An usual Deepkin is tough and brave, difficult to scare off and a hard nut to crack once he has planted his feet. Still, he lacks for aggression and rather that attack would prefer to draw back. But he will defend himself valiantly if attacked. There had been many cases of hulking Beastmen that attacked a lone Deepkin thinking him easy picking only to receive a headbut in the gut for their trouble. As for their corrupted brethren, the Deepkin have a strong resistance against the corrupting touch of Chaos. It has happened many times for Deepkin oppressed by mutating power to just huddle closer together, hiss through gritted teeth and shrug it all off.

The females are leaner and have longer tails than the males, but are tough and strong just as much. They are incapable of producing the enormous litters of their corrupted counterparts, but they are still fertile enough to produce a great mumber of pups during their lives.

In their twisted way every Skaven is a highly gregarious creature and the Deepkin are no exception. They form extensive family said Lodges and value family and friends highly; they find great comfort into the close presence of their kin. Pups and children in particular are shovered with affection and guarded jealously. Entire Mischiefs can go into a berserk frenzy should their young be endangered.

A particular exclusive of the Deepkin Skaven are the so-called Patriarchs and Matriarchs. It can happen that, as the end of his life draw near, a Deepkin receive some kind of contact from the Mother. This can take many forms, from true visions of the Goddess to other, more vague signs. Regardless, the old Deepkin will feel a calling toward the Mausoleum, the infamous tomb-like edifice at the heart of Haven. Should he decide to ignore it, he will grow old and die as all those before him, but, should he follow it, the gates of the shadowy tomb will open for him. The old ratman will enter and the doors will close behind him. Sometimes, they will remain closed, and the families of the Skaven will mourn him as one that has passed into death. But other times the gates will swing open once again, and a Patriarch or Matriarch will march out, his or her stomps making the ground quake.

The Patriarchs are enormous Skaven as tall as 14 feet and enormously large. Fat and mighty, they can wrestle Ogres to the ground, smash open castle gates with their bare paws and stare Greater Daemons in the eyes without flinching. They are the Blessed Ones, those charged by the Mother to watch over their younger siblings. They owe their titles that, save exceptions, the Patriarchs and Matriarchs bear a massive affection for their family, doting upon its members and defending them with zeal unmatched. They can live for centuries, the Goddess having unchained them from the bonds of normal mortality, and many of them go to sire numerous and powerful dinasties. They are the mightiest of the Uncorrupted Kin and their wrath is awesome to behold.

_The Mausoleum _

_In the rock under the Great Burrow of Haven, a labyrinth of tunnels stretches. Made hot by by the heat of the depths, the Deepkin have painstangly dug it through centuries of work, but not all of it it's their work. There are tunnels that were already there when the Exile ended, sneaking through rock and dirt; some are mundane, but others not so much. Sometimes, where there was only a solid wall before, an entrance appears. It usually happens in deserted tunnels, the presence of Skaven in them made unfrequent by distance, a change in the mining work or some other, less evident reasons. Wherever it happens, it appears always with the same appearance: a large entrance, framed by columns carved with signs of archaic design, that one can see glow even through closed lids; a large lintel sormounts them, with a cracked bell without a clapper dangling from it. A large stone key lays on the threeshold and, after it, a path of worn-out tiles forms a path forward; it disappears into a wall of darkness. The smell of the tomb waft from it, together with whispers that seems to come from the abyss. _

_All Deepkin feel an instictual dread towards this entrance and stay well away from it; the Damor, they call it, The Door of the Dead, and the path behind the way that brings to eternal darkness. Some of the bravest and foolhardy of the Deepkin have tried to brave that darkened path. All of them, without exception, couldn't raise the key, no matter how much strenght they mustered or how many of their allies called for help. The moment they entered into the shadows, their torches guttered and sputtered out, as a great hand had smothered them, leaving them into complete darkness. Those who tried to turn back found themselves denied, the darkness behind them having solidified into an unpassable wall, the only remaining way forward. _

_As they walked, they felt hands caress and scrabble at their fur and whispers brush against their ears, but their frantic motions couldn't ever find purchase upon any perpetrator. _

_Eventually, those whom terror had broken saw darkness and whispers suddenly give way and found themselves back into the tunnel from which they had stepped into the Door, of it no trace but the lingering fear in their hearts. _

_Those that kept courage, instead, found themselves before an enormous bridge arching over an endless abyss; its paving was made of bones, its enormous lenght lighted by the spectral light coming from skulls planted upon spears. Beyond the bridge, a Mausoleum stretched into darkness, a mind-boggling architecture that radiated a light that was made of darkness. Only a set of doors allowed for access to the monstrous edifice, a gaping maw held closed by gates of iron and carved with signs of death._

_At this sight, even the most foolhardy of the explorers lost their mind to terror. Turning their backs to the Mausoleum, they ran away without ever turning back; they too would find themselves back where they started, deadly frightened and screaming for help. _

_The mistery of the Mausoleum kept haunting Haven until the Night of Revelations and the coming of the first Patriarchs and Matriarchs. _

_The following day to the Night, as on the surface the sun descended down into twilight, an old and withered Deepkin felt the darkness call to him. He took his leave from his family and descended into the mines. The Door of the Dead was waiting for him. He picked up the stone key and wobbled into the darkness. The whispers and the caresses brushed him kindly, welcoming him back home, and he smiled, recognizing some of the voices. _

_The bridge of bones and skulls appeared before him, the horrible Mausoleum towering beyond, but the old ratman felt no dread. He walked across the bridge, the shades of the past walking with him. The doors opened for him. The Mausolem swallowed him whole. The toils of a great bell resounded into Haven as the darkness at the foot of the abyss roiled and echoed. The Deepkin of the city stood trasfized, many covering their ears and eyes as an aura of death breathed out of the tunnels. The great bell toiled six times, then a last time, its note raising clear and bright, a hymn of courage triumphing against death and darkness. It is said that the Horned Rat himself chattered in anger as it rang, that Daemons and monsters flinched like hit by a hefty punch, that the Chaos Gods clicked their tongues into annoyance. As it rang, the gloom covering Haven disappeared, like a clear wind had ran through the city, and the Deepkin rose with surprise in their features, feeling the smell of rain tickling their noses. _

_Down into the earth, the gates of the Mausoleum were flung open and the first Patriarch strode out. His eyes_ were_ clear and bright, his smile large and sure as he returned, back from the deepest darkness, to make battle with life once again. _

_So it was that the Patriarchs and Matriarchs started to appear into the Under-Kingdom. Many that try the Trial of the Mausoleum fail, and the seventh toil of the Invisible Bell plays mournful for their passing, but when the Trial is cleared, a new giant comes to defend the children of the Goddess; and is it said that nothing holds fear anymore for those that have faced the Mausoleum and thriumphed, because they faced the blackness that stands after the end of life and returned from it with a smile. _

_**Society **_

Deepkin Skaven are by nature profoundly gregarious creature and as such their society revolves around the concept of family. Family is the center of Deepkin life and the fundamental cell of the Under-Kingdom from an economical, military and social point of view. A Deepkin will be born inside of his family nursery, be educated by his family elders, march to war under his family banner, probably work in his family's business and, when of age, enter into his family's council of elders, from which maybe he will have the chance to influence the politics of his entire Burrow.

A typical Deepkin family is called a Lodge and is formed by an extensive number of members: a couple with their children and their children, their sisters and brothers with their mates, their children, their children's children and so on. It takes its name by the typical Deepkin habitation, called also a Lodge. A Lodge is a set of sturdy buildings, usually never more than two stores tall, built with wood and stone aboveground and by a sprawling maze of tunnels beneath. The typical Lodge will be full to burst with ratmen of all ages, from limping old Skaven with long whiskers, to tough Deepkin soldiers in armor, to workers going out and about, to small flocks of ratlings scampering around. It's really difficult to find a moment where a Lodge will be really silent; if it's not some sound of Deepkin's life, it will be the loud snooring of a hundred sleeping rats to break the silence!

Their Lodge's history is source of great pride for the Deepkin, and inside each complex a great hall will be set aside for its commemoration. These Halls of Remembrance are invariably full with tokens of the most disparate kinds: statues of revered ancestors will stand side by side with tattered documents commendating the family for some patriotic act, ancient tools of the family trade will be exposed close to reproductions of masterpieces built by some worthy member. Still, a post of honour will be always held out for military accomplishments: spears, swords, trophies of glorious victories, bones taken by defeated enemies, they will always be put on special display, showing off the contribution made by the Lodge to the defence of the Under-Kingdom as a whole. Legends of the past will be lovingly conserved and handed down to the newer generations as songs, storytelling or theatrical performances, all of them always accompanied by elaborated music and held to family meetings.

A Lodge will usually own one or more businesses, maybe even by multiple generations, with its members working in it. For example, in Haven many Lodges are engaged into breeding fishes, worms, insects and small underground mammals that are then used as food, as well as farming the underground caves and plains around the Burrow. Much of the surplus is then shipped to other under-cities, with merchant Lodges taking care of the trasport. This system is repeated in all sectors of Deepkin economy. More powerful Lodges may own great businesses, like the mass import and export of Cidrak - the par excellence Deepkin beverage, obtained by fermenting and mixing juices obtained by certain types of mushrooms and insects -, and employ other Lodges as dependants.

Life in the Lodge is first and foremost communal. The Deepkin have scarce conception of privacy or personal property, or even of personal space for what matter - it isn't considered unproper at all for siblings to clamber over each other in the tight confine of a tunnel! -. They will spend much of their time together and even sleep together into great mounds if need arises, but that is not the norm.

_Drizt gave the wood a last blow before drawing back. The Skaven watched his work with pride: a sturdy door stood before him, carved with nice images of swooning females. _

_"Look at it" He sighed. "Isn't a beauty?"_

_Thrak, the skaven at his side, looked unimpressed. _

_"It sucks." He commented offhandedly._

_Drizt jumped, turning to glare at him with a mix of outrage and betrayal. "Not true! It's cool!"_

_Thrak shrugged, making a bite from one of the fruit from the bowl. "The carvings look fake." _

_"What? Fake? I'll show you fake!" Armed with chisel and hammer, Drizt jumped against the door like it was a mortal enemy. _

_Thrak rolled his eyes. This was going to take a while. Well, at least he was well furnished with food. _

An usual Deepkin's aspirations will be of leaving his mark into his Lodge's history, a trait fostered by the education he received and by the sheer boundless vitality coursing through his veins. Deepkin are an industrious people and such is their verminous energy that more often than not they will be following some sort of personal project in addition to their work. They know that their lives are brief and this spurs them to be searching ever onwards for new experiences and to make things that will make the Lodge better than it was before. For these reasons, the history, richness and reputation of the Lodge will be shown by the Lodge itself. Buildings, rooms and tunnels will show the works of generations of ratmen, with richly ornated walls, carvings of all kinds covering every surface, perfectly built networks of tunnels and much more. The oldest living Lodges are true monuments to the vitality of its inhabitants, not even an inch of their labyrinthic structure that doesn't show some trace of the past. On the contrary, more recent Lodges will be smaller, with buildings less grand and tunnels less extensive, showing their recent inception. And still, this isn't considered much of a dishonor, because the Deepkin have a penchant for improving and creating new things and the empi canvas of the ne west Lodges sometimes elicit the envy of ratlings from Lodges with not an inch of tunnels to work upon anymore. Sometimes, it gets so much of a bother that it become a reason for a part of the Lodge to split up and create a new home, together with the more prosaic overpopulation!

Following this mindset, elders are greatly respected for their experience, as well as those ratmen that have done exceptional deeds or seen or experienced things that their brethren have not. A Lodge will be invariably led by a council formed by these individuals, with the oldest and wisest acting as a chief elder. This council will manage the Lodge, deciding the politics of the entire family, acting to as judges, passing down rules, controlling the treasury and the like.

_The three Skaven stood at unease before the desk, waiting for the elder to finish to review some documents. From time to time, they threw each other a glare, but none dared to do anymore._

_"So!" _

_The three Skaven jumped to attention. The elder leaned against a paw, reading casually. _

_"Two broken carts. A load of Redcap and one of Skut wasted. A store destroyed. Twenty workers sent to the hospital. Three guards almost sent to the Mother. And almost an entire warehouse burned to the ground, along with all the implements, tools, etc. etc."_

_The three Skaven swallowed at unison. It was okay if they said that they did it by mistake?_

_With absolute calm, the elder rested the document on the desk and watched them emotionlessly._

_"Death by hanging. For all three of you."_

_The three Skaven blinked, struggling to register._

_"THAT'S WHAT I WOULD MAKE OF YOU IDIOTS IF ONLY I COULD! GET OUT OF MY SIGHT BEFORE I FUCKING KILL YOU ALL!" _

_The three Skaven were all out by the time the elder had grabbed hold of the axe held above the fireplace. _

Multiple Lodges bound together, be it by a common ancestor, a common business or some other motive, are called Mischiefs. Multiple Mischiefs forms a Nest and multiple Nest forms a Burrow, that is comparable to a human city. The greatest and most important Burrow are called Great Burrows and act the political and commercial main hubs.

The government is formed into a piramidal structure: each Lodge Council will elect a rappresentative that will take part into the Mischief Council, that, again, will send a representative to the Nest Council. This process will be repeated at Burrow level, with a last council whose members will act as advisors to a Kinlord sent by Haven and will invariably include a representative of the local Church and League of Mages-Engineers. The Kinlords are nominated directly and are answerable only to the Under-King himself, but, even if their power is vast, they are expected to listen to the advice of the council and take it into consideration before making decisions. Theoretically they can disregard its opinion, but only the most headstrong of Kinlords dare to risk to make an enemy of his council. They live in the same place he's supposed to govern after all, and their words carry a lot of weight in the Burrow. Internal administration is usually left to the various levels of councils, but the central government of the Burrow retains the monopoly of force, to levy taxes and the right to interfere into any matter that is considered of higher importance, together with other rights that make sure that it always remains the heavyweight in the politics of the Burrow. The Kinlord will always be assisted by a number of officials personally nominated by him from the local notables; for example, the Master of Tails will take care of all matters regarding taxes, while the Blackburner will be at the head of the military. Lower-lever officials will be picked from the populace also. This makes so that clientelism always plays an important part, especially when particularly Lodges come into play. Still, their long history as a small island against a sea of corruption has made so that the Deepkin have devleoped into a tight-knit community: the right to lead and oversee is held into high consideration and patriotism is a staple element of their society, making so that corruption is kept at a minimum and that ability and experience are the primary means of nomination.

_The Kinlord turned her back with disdain to the kneeling Beastman._

_"Hrergar." She called. A burly Deepkin rushed to her side._

_"My lady." He said, offering her the hilt of a long sword. It was a magnificent word, engraved with runes of power and destruction. _

_The Kinlord grasped it and pulled. The blade made a slightly hissing sound as it left the ornated sheath. _

_The Bestigor rose his massive head, showing his distorted teeth in an atrocious smile._

_"We'll never stop coming for you." He growled. "The Hunt is Endless. End…" _

_His words were cut off as the sword split the air. The Beastman's head fell down, tumbling a couple of times before stopping at the feet of the one that had freed it from the neck. _

_The Kin lord watched the head with cold disdain. _

_"You're in luck, then." She said. "Wel'll always be ready, as we'll always be here." _

A last level of government remains for the Great Burrows themselves. True metropolis, they are governed by Kinlords that are a step above the others. They are called Depthlords and hold control over entire provinces of the Under-Kingdoms, with their officials having authority everywhere inside its borders. Powerful councils formed by representative of the Burrows and the Great Burrow they rule advise them but they are held in such high regard that it's less frequent that the councils try to impose their wills upon them. Above the Depthlords there is only the Under-King himself, that rules over the entirety of the Under-Kingdom from the Great burrow of Haven. He is the chosen of the Goddess and his word is law. Not a council stand by his side but an entire court, formed by supplicants come from all the Kingdom to make their requests, and by ministers whose reach encompasses everything about their expertise. The pronouncements issued here have weight of law for the entire Kingdom and the calls of war launched by the King can rouse the entirety of the Deepkin race to war.

A special mention is needed for the Patriarchs and Matriarchs.

These Skaven reborn are held into the utmost veneration by their kin, considered almost as demigods. Even the poorest Lodge is held into the greatest consideration, should one of these giants stand into its ranks. The Patriarchs's words are always heed into any council, because every Deepkin knows that they bring wisdom of centuries with them. They are welcomed as honored guests even in the courts of the Depthlords and their council is held into the highest regard. Really, there are very few Deepkin that would dare to gainsay a Patriarch.

_**The Church of the Silent Goddess**_

The Deepkin are a highly religious people and it's the Church of the Silent Goddess to take care of all their spiritual needs.

The Church is highly venerated in Deepkin society, with their members holding great sway over the populace. No other worship except the one to the Mother and his myriad sons and daughters is permited and this gives the Church a great social and political weight.

Ordinary cerimonies honouring the Mother are held two times at week, and a thick calendar of religious festivities spread across the entire year, culminating with the great anniversary that is held at Haven, celebrating the succesful end of the Exile, with thousands of ratmen from all the Under-Kingdom coming to attend to it.

Places of worship litter all the Under-Kingdom, ranging from small sanctuaries formed only by a statue of the Mother at a crossroad to massive cathedrals raising at the center of the Great Burrows.

The ordinary worship is held and led by priests and priestesses, usually Deepkin with a strong religious devotion that are educated in the tenets of the faith into schools owned by the Church itself. The higher echelons of the Church are instead formed exclusively by the all female order of the Shaskar, each an accomplished priestess that has received a direct vision from the Mother and can wield divine powers. Shaskar can be found at the hend of the Church of the Burrow, with the eldest and most respected being the Ur-Shaskar that hold command over religious matters regarding entire provinces. Mundane interests, like priests using the power of the Church to favor their Lodge, can find purchase only on the low and medium levels. The Shaskar are all touched directly by the Silent Goddess and act with the utmost zeal in the defence of the Under-Kingdom and the Deepkin souls. Under their commands, the words uttered by the pulpits are always directed to favour brotherhood, armony and patriotism.

The Church has always acted as beacon and guide for the Deepkin race and this has has brought it a prominent place into their society. Since from the legendary beginnings, special taxes have been levied for the maintenance of religious places and personel, and territories have been handed down to the Church in perpetual possession. Many civil officials are picked from the ranks of the Church and their highest representatives are always a part of any government.

The Church itsels is fairly independent, with abbeys-fortresses scattered all across the Under-Kingdom, with its own militias and orders of warriors-monks. It's the Shaskas that led them, these priestesses leaving any civil government to their sisters to march to the help of the armies of the Under-Kingdom, scores of acolytes and sacred warriors behind them. The Under-Kingdom is first and foremost a warrior nation and so is its Church, as well as the glue holding it together.

Still, the greatest mean to influence the destiny of their race, come from the most peculiar feature of the Church of the Silent Goddess.

Old Shaskar that don't follow no battle nor governance move restlessly across the Kingdom, following the signs sent by their Goddess. Sometimes, they are there to witness the birth, others are Deepkin parents to bring their children to their ancient priestesses. The ones brought to them are those that are born with horns, the sign that the Horned Rat's corruption reaches long.

The Shaskar takes the still-blind pup and brings him to the Rock, the sacred monastery at the center of Haven. There, the horned ratlings are grown by the finest masters of the Church, taught combat, politics, economics and many more topics. Powerful magic is woven upon them from the moment they step into that secretive location, and they grow tall and powerful, more than any son or daughter of the Mother. Eventually, when they are prepared to step outside, they perform a terrible rite of detestation. By their own paws, they sever their horns, making themselves eternal enemies of the Horned Rats and champions of the Uncorrupted Kin.

They are then presented to the Under-King, that takes them as his guards and pupils. Many will remain at Court, acting as champions and elite guards, but the best and brightest will be sent by the King to lead the armies of the Deepkin as Warlords or will be chosen to become Kinlord or even Depthlord. When the time come for a the Under-King to step down from the throne, it's between these ratmen that his successor will be chosen.

_The Shaskar watched the flames crackling in the fireplace. It was a cozy little house, and the smell of happiness filled it nicely. She felt a small stab of pain at having to break a piece out of it, but pusher it back with ease born of long practice. _

_She turned at hearing steps. _

_A Skaven stepped into the room. He had eyes only for the small bundle between his arms. _

_"I…" He began, his voice breaking for a moment before he found the words. "I had to wait for her to fall asleep." _

_The Shaskar stepped close, looking at the bundle. She could see the small nubs even under all that cloth. She bit her lip, then turned to the father._

_The Skaven was watching her, desperation in his eyes, together with pain that could be born only by betrayal by the greatest happiness. _

_The Shaskar put a paw over his shoulder. "He will become a champion, a guardian of our people. By his hand, corruption will be destroyed and the innocent will be saved." _

_The father said nothing. He just nodded shakily, and handled her the bundle. _

_The Shaskar stepped out into the rain with the bundle covered beneath her cloak. Feeling the gaze of the skaven on her back and the small movements of the pup between her arms, despite all the glories that she knew that small one would bring, she couldn't but feel like a thief in the night. But the Goddess was there to sustain her, and she knew that sacrifices were unevitable, even for those escaped by corruption. _

_It didn't ease her cult, but allowed her to bear it with stoicism, as it should have been. _

_**The Leagues **_

The Deepkin are an ingenious people, always working to prepare themselves to the great war to come and to better what they already have. Their greatest accomplishments have been had into the esoterical mix of magic, science and alchemy of whose the Mages-Engineers of the Leagues are expert.

The Leagues are associations born to promote and bring forward technological, scientific, and magical advancement. Like their corrupted brethren of Clan Skyre, the Mages-Engineers mix together science and magic to perform incredible, even if noticeably less mad, feats. While the Skaven use the noxious power of Warpstone to power their creations, the Leagues harness the fires that smoulder in the depths of the earth and the moving might of steam.

From massive forges and factories embedded into primeval rock, they produce cannons, rifles and clanking warmachines that make the earth tremble. It's a point of pride for the Leagues to always be able to counter anything their corrupted brethren can bring to bear and so their laboratories never go silent!

_**Military**_

The Under-Kingdom is a nation sorrounded by hostile forces, born and bred upon war and on the myth of a great war that will see them triumph over corruption or succumb to it and be destroide. Warriors are held into high regards for these reasons and given a preferential treatment anywhere.

Any Lodge is required to give all its able-bodied members at least a modicum of training, as well as being able to raise contingents of warriors should the need arise. Still, the true might of the Under-Kingdom lays with the regular army. This is highly proficent, formed by volunteers that are required to remain under arms for two decades and War-Lodges whose only trade is war itself. Costant warring and training makes so that the army is always of professional level and high pays and privileges make so that the flux of volunteers is never less than abundant. Deepkin society is populous and there isn't ever shortage for recruits eager to make a name for themselves.

The War-Lodges in particular are a sure source of highly trained and motivated ratmen soldiers. These Lodges are bound by rules of engagements and oaths to their Burrows and Kinlord and will fight with ferocious zeal to defend it. There are many tales of disciplined formations of these brethren in arms standing against terrible odds and coming out on top.

_The Stain _

_The corruption wrought by the Horned Rat is a seeping menace, and one that the Deepkin struggle against from the beginning of their history. Rituals of purification are held all the time to make so that litters are born healthy and without the mental defects typical of the corrupt Skaven. The Black Hunger is a distant, if ever-present danger, and any Deepkin feel, in the depths of his soul, the stain left by the Horned One's claws. _

_This makes so that the Deepkin feel as unevitable a recknoning with their corrupted kin. Their history has been an almost uninterrupted building of strenght and power for a last great battle. There can't be nothing but triumph or annihilation in this war. The Deepkin will destroy the curse haunting them or will perish in the attempt. The Goddess and the Horned Rat will have their reckoning. _

Particular companies are the so-called Errant Lodges. Uusually led by a massive Patriarch, these great families of ratmen scour the lands of the world, searching for knowledge and weapons that could be useful in helping their Kingdom to win in its great war. They move from land to land, amassing fighting prowess, techniques of war and any scrap of knowledge that is considered useful. Only when they score some great discovery they will return to the Kingdom and they will remain just the time to share their found treasures, enjoy the great festivities held in their honour and refill their stock of food and then they will away once again, back into the wider world.

As much as they are held into the highest esteem by their brethren, the Deepkin cannot but feel a feeling of unease these wandering Lodges. To abandon the Kingdom is not the Deepkin way and many ratmen fear what stand beyond their borders. And still, this is not the only reason. The Errant Lodges carry something ominous about them that seems to border into the supernatural. Many legends says that the wandering families has left the need for material food behind and that now only perpetual conflict can fill their gullets. Others, more ancient stories says that the research of knowledge isn't the only reason of their wanderings; they speak of a mission, given by the Gdodess herself and of critical importance for the success of the Deepkin war. Not even these stories say what this misterious objective could be and no Deepkin has any inkling about it.

_The War-rats_

_Led by the grim Patriarch Kiarak, this Lodge wander the world in search of martial knowledge. The War-Rats are boisterous warriors that make for deadly opponents, each of their move back by centuries of accumulated wisdom. The ratmen of the Lodge are highly trained in multiple fighting style, able to switch from one to the next like one could change pants. _

_Versatility made form, their formation change like it is a living being, adapting at any mutation on the battlefield. One moment, the War-Rats form a tightly packed wall of shields and spears, able to trade blow with a Dwarf phalanx without giving up an inch, the next they whirl around in every direction, effortlessly dodging the charge of a monster or a flurry of arrows. They are easily recognizable by the painted masks they wear, objects that are said to host the echoes of the precedent wearers and that can imbue their actual wearers with part of their knowledge and ability. _

_Kiarak himself lead the Lodge, a towering monster of a Deepkin. Covered from head to toes in scars, with a cloak made of pieces of skin taken by defeated champions and emblazoned masks, he strides the battlefield like a demigod of war. Monsters, Daemons and champions have been hewed down in their scores by his mighty axe, and is said that the Patriarch steal a part of their strenght and ability by weaving shreds of their bodies in his cloak. Kiarak has battled the worst the world can muster and has always come out stronger by it, with a new piece for his cloak or by surviving and learning; and the same goes for the ratmen of his Lodge. _


	2. Chapter 2

_**The Battle of the Rat Stone**_

At the south of the world, where the sands of the Land of the Dead gives up to luscious jungles, at the center of a rocky basin, an enormous statue in the rough form of a rat crouches. Its eyes are blazing emeralds and its form is massive and grim; it keeps watch over a series of caverns and holes that lead down underground, to a Great Burrow called Deepwatch. Originally built as a military post to keep control over the southern border, it has grown over the centuries into a sprawling metropolis thanks to the harvesting of resources of the jungles above, eventually assurging to central hub of the region. Its inhabitants are of a militaristic and strong breed, having battled the Beastmen of the jungles since the inception of the Burrow. Is it they that have built the Rat Stone, carving it by a single enormous block of black rock and affixing emeralds mined into far Haven in its eye-sockets. The Rat Stone is their fortress. Tunnels dug tby magic honeycombs it, allowing for an entire army to garrison it. Massive towers and battlements jut out of its back, allowing for warmachines and archers to bombard any army on the approaching. Should they come close, slits and windows allow for arrows, stones and any kind of projectiles to be launched outside in any direction while cunningly wrought openings can be slammed open at any moment, sorties of heavily armed warriors dashing outside to break the enemy. Boulders or siege weapons that would smash any normal fortification break on the skin of the Rat Stone, without leaving a dent: the black rock is tough, having required decades for the Deepkin to dig through it, and magic has been woven into it again and again, streghtening it against any assault. The only visible entrance is a gigantic gate that opens under the chin of the rat, on his chest. This gate is called of the Noose, as in trying to breach it many armies have only managed to destroy themselves. To reach it, one must go between the two outstretched paws of the Rat Stone, each littered with arrow slits and warmachine emplacements, making himself a target to the projectiles coming from the barbican above the gate, the two towers flanking it and from both sides, from the paws. To enter into such a crossfire is a daunting task to say the least and it is for this reason that the Gate of the Noose has been breached only three times in all the centuries the fortress has stood.

Still, the fortress itself has never fallen. Along the centuries, armies of Beastmen have thrown themselves against its walls again and again with savage fury, but each time the defenders have stood firm, unleashing death upon the monsters under their walls. If not blasted to pieces in their advance, the Beastmen smashed uselessly against its walls, even their greatest monsters falling to breach them. Each time they managed to find and rip open a hidden door or to slink in the tunnels by climbing upon the rocks, they were held back by shieldwalls, sliced and stabbed to death or thrown down the battlements, ending into pieces into the ground below. So many Beastmen have tried to destroy the Rat Stone from the day it has been built that the basin all around is still covered with their bones. Only the remains of their greatest champions don't stand between that dirt; their bones still hangs by the same gates they tried to smash open and by the same towers they wished to topple.

It was at the time of the first Under-King that the Rat Stone came under its greatest assault.

A terrifying monster, a Lord of Minotaurs, a Doombull emerged in the realm of the jungles of the south, bringing numerous brayherds under its domain. This wasn't made by feats of strenght or intimidation, it wasn't needed. This Doombull, calling himself the Bloodstarved One, was a champion of the Blood God Khorne, an avatar of that God's undying hatred and thrist for slaughter.

It had massacred its way across the southern world, searching for the greatest and more powerful beasts roaming those distant lands. It believed, in fact, that only the skulls of such massive foes were worthy as offerings to the Skull Throne. All the others enemies, he shunned even as food, maintaining himself only over the flesh of his kills. Day and night the Bloodstarved One roamed the southern lands, never resting, never uttering a single word or growl, his entire being taken by his mission. He felled beasts that could flatten armies, fattened himself upon the life of titans, spilled so much blood that the land drank and drank until it could drink no more and forever left the blood spilled by the monster to fester into pools. He came to be permeated with the breath of death, and his eyes burned with a fire that, should be unleashed, it would have set the sky ablaze.

Eventually, his tally grew such that even Mighty Khorne took notice.

The Blood God blessed his champion with demonic power and the Gift of Calling, and commanded him to bring destruction upon the world of civilized people.

Following his God's orders, the Bloodstarved made his way to the jungles of the Beastmen. Climbing a hill, he inspired deeply and let his roar make the sky tremble. As one, the beastmen of the jungle fell to attention. Any hesitation and doubt was forgotten, any thought of intercine warfare was forgotten. It remained only the call.

As one, bray-herds made their way to where the Call had come. From every direction they came, until a sea of snorting beasts stood assembled under the hill, all gazes held toward the one at the top of it. As they watched, the Call changed and became tinted with Chaos. All the anger, hatred and bloodlust of the Bloodstarved One went into his roar and the savage nature of the beastmen was aroused to a mad frenzy. They started to howl and yell, bellow and bray, until a churning sea of waved horns, shrieking mouths and bared fangs, flailing appendages and stomping hooves raged around the hill.

The Doomlord pointed a direction and gave the order. Like the breaking of a dam, the beastmen charged, a single, thundering mass of stinking fur, hulking weapons and unthinking savagery.

All of them, throwing themselves against the Rat Rock.

In the fortress there never was a time when surveillance slacked. Sentinels held their posts at all times, ready to signal for attacking enemies. That time, the trembling earth was enough.

With ease born from custom, the Deepkin soldiers prepared for battle. Archers crowded the battlements, stocks of arrows at the ready. Warmachines were cranked up and winded. Cauldrons full of boiling water were pushed into position. Defenders formed up into ranks before gates and doors. Mages whispered their spells, power crackling along their fingers. The defenders of Rat Rock were tough and hardy, and wouldn't be found wanting.

And still, they too balked when the horizon was filled with braying figures.

_Kinrat_

_The Kinrat are the rank-and-file of Deepkin armies, the meat that form the bulk of the warrior ranks of the Under-Kingdom. They are ubiquitous, so much that the term Kinrat is also a synonimous for "warrior". In a sense, all Deepkin wielding weapons are Kinrat, but in a more specific meaning this term is used for indicate the common soldiers._

_The Kinrat are well-armed and well-trained, their hardy nature of uncorrupted ratmen made harder by costant battle and practice. On the battlefield, they form into vast blocks of armored infantry, meeting the enemy attacks with closed ranks and resolution. They are usually armed with spears and large shields that they interlock to form a wall, as well with a long knife that is used as a back-up weapon. Officers, champions and elites units are issued magical weapons that can cut through metal or give higher strenght and speed, enchanted armors that can deflect the blows of a Minotaur, talismans that repel dark magic or rune-inscribed parchments that, if read aloud, can unleash minor spells. Anyway, manifacture of magical artifacts in Deepkin society is still large enough that even the lowest of Kinrat will be issued at least a small charm to protect him from harm. Powerful weapons and objects can even belong to certain Lodges, that will give them to their sons and daughters to protect them into war. The government holds a tight control over magical item, though, and any of those issued are rigorously filed and registered. Heavy pay cuts and even punishments wait for those soldiers that fail to show them at inspection or return them when requested._

_The same control is exercised upon gunpowder weapons. Particular types can be handed to commanders and champions, but the bulk is usually kept for units of riflemen and gunners and deployed en masse._

_Other regiments types exist also, like more heavily armored Kinrat wielding more specialised weapons, like heavy hammers to smash through armor or bows, slings and crossbows to pepper the enemy from afar. Special equipment is provided by the Leagues, ranging from hand-thrown bombs to mechanical body replacements and augmentations, to strange weapons powered by steam, fire and magic. Even more specialised troop types may exist depending from the position of the Burrow from where they hail; for example, Kattleburr, a small burrow renowed for its large mushrooms farms, equips all of its soldiers with bombs made with clay pots full of spores with effects ranging from violents sneezing to gruesome deaths if inhaled._

_The Kinrat are usually formed into groups of twenty called Holes (from the name given to newly founded Lodges for the small extension of its habitable quarters). Members of a Hole share sleeping quarters and elects an Elder, usually the most veteran, that act as leader of the group. Each soldier will be issued a number of equipment and tools (especially about cooking and maintenance) as well as food and water, and will be required to carry everything on his person._

_Ten Holes form a Brigade, commanded by a Shieldchief. The shieldchief leads from the front and is always a veteran soldier promoted by actions on the field. Shieldchiefs are chosen based on courage, martial skills and loyalty, so they are invariably accomplished warriors. They can then nominate two Spearchiefs that act as adjutants and four Champions to which issue better equipment. A Brigade will also host a standard-bearer and a Strenght-bearer, that will go to lead a small bands of musicians whose instruments will be used to coordinate march and trasmit messages over long distance. Especially infamous among the Kinrat are the powerful whistles used by Shieldchiefs to trasmit their orders above the din of battle._

_Higher level officers aren't chosen amongst the soldiers, but come from state-owned military schools. They are taught formal tactics and martial skills, before being sent to take command of wider formations. Starting from the lowest level above Shieldchief, there are Chiefs, Captain, Commanders, Warleaders and Warlords, that holds command over entire armies. These officers don't shy from leading from the front if the need arises, but ordinary Deepkin military doctrine see them stand back, as to keep a wider vision and the ability to better supervise the flow of battle. They are invariably well-armed, but, being not expected to normally wade into the fray - making exception for some particularly bloodthirsty example - the best equipment won't be given to them but to champions._

_Costant training and the long terms of service make so that the common Kinrat is of good quality, both in martial skills and morale. They form the basic core of Deepkin armies, meeting enemies head-on and keeping them at bay with their heavy armor, good training and stout nature, while the rest of the army maneuver to place devastating blows. As they lack their corrupted brethren's natural aggression, Kinrat infantry shines more on defence that on the offence, but will stay and fight, grinding down the attackers through toughness, discipline, courage, good armaments and tactics. Many berserkers charge of rampaging Beastmen have been halted by disciplinated walls of armored ratmen, the Kinrat taking blows and paying them back until only they remained, the sliced corpse of their enemies littering the field before them._

There was no moment of staring between armies, no launching of signal to advance. The battle started like a thunderbolt.

The beastmen flooded the basin like the raging sea. Cascades of dirt fell down the steep ridges, and many tumbled down in their frenzy to advance.

Warlord Krizztik held supreme command over the Rat Stone. He was a grizzled Deepkin that had grown old guiding the defence of the fortress or leading retaliatory attacks against tribes that threatened the harvesting efforts. He held an inveterate hatred against the Beastmen, born and bred by a life of battle, and personally killed so many Beastmen that the sentinels darkly joke that the plain of bones before the Stone should be called the plains of Krizztik instead. His fighting days were now behind him, cause of a crippled foot, but he was strong of body and mind still, and expert into siege defence. A score of adjutants and advisors stood by his side, the most prominent of were the Shaskar Jarriz, the Grand-Mage Engineer Vulq and Thrum Stoutshield, the champion of the fortress.

At the order of the Warlord, catapults were loosed and cannons opened fire. Each artillery emplacement had their objctives pre-arranged, so that not even an inch of the land before the fortress could be traversed without being taken aim at; and their crews had trained again and again. Cannoballs and boulders smashed through the horde, mangling bodies and sending flailing limbs flying into the air. Holes were opened into the horde, but were filled back just as quickly.

Krizztik gave another order, immediately repeated by commanders and Shieldchiefs all across the battlements. Bows were loosed, and a swarm of arrows flew into the sky. The beastmen didn't even look up as the scorching light of the sun of south was marred by a flurry of shadows. The arrows fell between them as a rain of death, stabbing into stinking fur and sending many to the ground, their bodies pincushioned.

Atop the battlements, a gigantic ratman stood between the archers. Patriarch Sharpfang was one of the first of his kind to appear between the Deepkin, the member of a group of five being in the fortress in that moment. The arrow he had fired was as big as a ballista bolt, and he had accurately took aim at a Minotaur that seemed to be leading a pack of his kind. The Patriarch grunted in approvation as his quarry disappeared under the hooves of his followers, his massive head almost split in half, and scratched a mark on his bow.

But where one fell, another thousand remained. Unheeding of any loss, the wave of Beastmen swarmed against the rocks of the fortress, until a sea of fur, claws and fangs seemed to be churning around the great statue. Howling in anger, maddened by bloodlust, they smashed their weapons against the black stone; they bit and scratched at it, desperately trying to carve their way in.

In all answer, the Deepkin overturned their cauldrons, boiling alive any caught beneath. Traps hidden into the walls were sprung, sending rocks to pierce flesh and crush bones. Mages-Engineers activated their machines, splashing the mass of Beastmen with gouts of lava and sending lighting to incinerate them. On the other side, even the boulders thrown by the monstrous Cygors shattered uselessly against the battlements.

For a moment, the beastmen howled with powerless fury, scrabbling uselessly against the black rock of the fortress while the defenders rained death upon them.

The moment was broken when the Bray-Shamans came. There were dozens of them, held aloft over ramschakled chariots or hidden between the mass of their brethren, sinister figures covered with bug-infested rags and fastoneed with charms and bones. They alone had held their intellect and now they called upon their magic.

The Rat Stone shuddered, assailed by a wave of destructive power. Dust and splinters rained from the battlements as the Bray-Shamans tried to undo what kept its walls together.

The Deepkin mages, held into reserve just for that moment, moved to prevent that. Led by the Shaskar Jarriz, acolytes of the Church joined their strenght with the Mages-Engineer; they raised their voice into a hymn to the Mother, calling for rock and stone to remain steadfast in Her name.

Their prayers battled against the Bray-Shamans's curses, and phantasmal colours and figures swirled into the air, the air straining and trembling under the magical fight.

Still, the Bray-Shamans were more powerful than ever, the unleashed savagery of their brethren bloating their might. As many of their numbers held the battle against the Deepkin mages, others threw their bloodlust into the ground before the Rat Stone. Even if their magic couldn't find purchase on the black rock, great rampants of worm-riddled dirt rose groaning from the earth, forming into pathways reaching windows and slits. Ladders made of bones grew like twisted vines across the walls and upon the back of the Rat Stone, and then on the towers upon it. When their work was done, the enormous black statue was trapped into a net of jutting bones and stinking earth, like the realm of death was trying to drag it down.

The Beastmen charged across the newly-formed pathways, with many Ungors pushed down the ramps by their own brethren, such was their eagerness to come to battle.

The defenders were dismayed by that demonstration of fell power, as well by seeing their greatest defences put to shame in such easy way. Still, there was no time to have fear, the enemy bore upon them, and they still were all veterans of melee with the braying heards of Beastmen. Even close combat wouldn't find them unprepared.

Chiefs shouted orders and ranks were formed. Weapons were clanked together, teeth were bared and prayers were whispered.

Then battle was joined.

The first Beastmen to reach the windows were stabbed htrough guts and eye sockets, and then pushed down to smash into the ground underneath. Crossbows were loosed at point-black range, their arguments piercing enough to be easy to understand even for thick half-beasts skulls.

The Bray-Shamans, completed their tasks of creating pathways, moved their attention now to the points where the melee raged. They focused their hatred on the Beastmen chipping at the arrow slits too small to allow for passage, making the weapons of these warriors blaze with magical fire. Where their rusted weapons didn't manage to make even a dent upon the black stone, now every blow left growing cracks. One after the other, relentlessly, the Beastmen kept on coming, many of them barely managing a hit upon the rock before being driven off or killed, but eventually it was enough.

Under their axes, the rock of the Rat Stone gave way and multiple openings were made. The beastmen rushed inside, their momentum and ensorcelled weapons allowing them to overhelm the first defenders and kill many behind.

Situation started to become grave at these breaches, and the Deepkin commanders reacted quickly to stop the bleeding. The Warlord had acolytes detach from the magical fight still raging and assist the largest guns. Using their magical senses, they led the engineers to fire where the Bray-Shamans were. The distance was long, but bullets esploding into shrapnel were used and magic went to better the aim. The first shot missed its target by seven yards. The second blasted to pieces the Bray-Shaman together with all his retinue.

Seeing this, and that their own positions were starting to get aimed at the Bray-Shamans stopped their efforts, using their magic to disappear between the mass of their brethren.

Free from their struggle, the Shaskar led the mages to focus their magical might into a single point. The venerable priestess reached upon the highest heaven and, with a burst of exertion, called down a celestial object. The meteor fell like a thunderbolt in the middle of the Beastmen horde. The impact was terrifying, and when the dust settled enough to see again, a smoking crater had taken the place of a chunk of the sieging army.

A roar of exultation ran across the Deepkin, and they redoubled their efforts to push the Beastmen out of the fortress.

But the Beastmen's charge wasn't fazed at all. They just trampled over devastated earth and bodies and kept coming, while the Deepkin mages had to hold back their magic for the return of the Bray-Shamans.

For an entire day and night the battle for the battlements raged. The Deepkin, forming into shieldwalls, held their positions with resolution, throwing down horde after horde. Slavering Ungors and Gors were stabbed and hacked down in their scores, rampaging Minotaurs and horrible Spawns were blown up with magic and mechanical warmachines or just dragged down and hacked to pieces. The Beastmen just kept coming, a wave that seemed endless, attacking with wild abandon, any thought of preservation lost. Even the usual divisions of the bray-herds were made forgotten by the bloodgreed. Ungor, Gors and Bestigors ran mixed together with monsters of the wild, a single, braying mass that seemed unstoppable, like the darkest lands of the forest had come alive into a tide of destruction.

_Chikch caught the Beastman's axe with his shield. The blow sent tremors rippling though his arm, but he held firm. The monster didn't stop, scrabbling and pushing madly against him, skeletal fingers searching for purchase beyond the shield and over flesh. His breath washed over Chikch, rot and old dirt, the stink of the grave._

_Chikch gritted his teeth and shoved him back, then thrusted the spear in his guts. The Beastman gave a strangled yelp, more of anger than actual pain, made a last jerky attempt at reaching him and then went down. With practiced ease, Chikch snatched his spear back from the corpse before the dead weight could damage it and watched around._

_The line was holding. His brothers and sisters of the Lodge formed a shieldwall upon which the Beastmen assault crashed uselessly._

_But they never stopped._

_The ground before the shieldwall was a carpet of stinking corpses, but whereved Chikch looked, he could see only more of braying monsters swarm forward. There seemed to be no end to them!_

_He could see the same rising despair he felt into the eyes of his comrades, even as they relentlessly chopped down the aggressors. They were fighting from so much time that the world seemed to have shrunk only to that endless combat. There would ever be an end to it? And if not, what was the point of continuing?_

_A bump on the shoulder called him back from his gloomy thoughts. Spearchief Thruk gave him a knowing look._

_"Still alive." He said. His armor, lovingly engraved with images of the Lodge, was covered with blood, but the eyes beneath were glowing._

_Chikch felt like someone had dumped a bucket of water on his fur._

_He nodded. "Still alive."_

_The Spearchief grinned, and both turned to face new assailants._

_Yes, still alive and kicking. Come and take that away if you can!_

Reinforcements were pulled from the Great Burrow below and the fortress held strong, but the Beastmen numbers seemed endless.

By sheer attrition, the Beastmen managed to conquer footholds in the sides of the Rat Stone and on the battlements upon its back. Wherever they managed a breakthrough, they planted their ragged standards, toppling and dissacrating those of the Deepkin. Violent clashes soon erupted atop the towers and inside the tunnels.

The fiercest fighting was at the Gate. There, the most horrible warbeasts were concentrated. Gigantic Chaos Spawns waded through the rain of arrows and projectiles, mountains of twisting limbs and mutating flesh that knitted back as quick as it was cut. The mass of lesser Beastmen was dotted by the massive forms of Giants, Gorgons, Cygors and the unspeakable things come from the depth of the dark. These giants pounded against the Gate, trying to bring it down.

But here the Deepkin resistance was the strongest too. Krizzkit led personally the defence of the Gate and, under his command, the Deepkin fought with valor. They threw bombs and cannonballs against the largest beasts and repelled any assault coming from the ramps. The conformation of the walls played greatly to their advantage, allowing them to bombard the enemy from three sides. They even managed to destroy two of the great ramps: one was blasted to pieces by repeated hits by cannon and the other mined by the Mages-Enginneers and brought down with a deafening explosion. In the tunnels, too, the Deepkin held valiantly, their commanders leading continuous counter-attacks and unleashing their own warbeasts.

During this moment of the battle, Stoutshield distinguished himself.

The champion was fighting atop the battlements, his battle-pack at his side, when a massive beast tried to climb one of the great ramps. It was a horrible spawn, its head, vaguely resembling a goat's, almost lost between a sea of rippling flesh. It was so enormous that it had to use all its limbs to anchor itself to the ramp, using them to drag all of its bulk up.

Cannons were redirected aginst the monster, but the few that weren't caught in its mutating aura and were consumed by fire, exploded uselessly against it, blowing up chunks of flesh that started to regrow almost as fast.

Stoutshield killed a last Bestigor with a swipe of his axe, then turned to behold the monster. The thing dragged itself up slowly, its massive and distorted bulk making difficult keep its grip, moaning and groaning by a hundred mouths as it went. Should it manage to reach the battlements, it could have plucked and devoured the defenders like chicks, wreaking who knew how much damage before being put out of its misery.

Stoutshield needed only a moment to decide.

Shouting at his war-pack, he issued a series of order, then charged toward the crenellations. Those Beastmen in his way, he felled without slowing down. His comrades were right behind him, killing those that threatened his flanks. By the time they reached the crenellations, the warriors Stoutshield had sent another way returned. They bore a crate of explosives and a bunch of long ropes and chains.

Stoutshield took hold of the small explosive blocks and roped them together in thick bundles, then tied each bundle to a chain. His comrades did the same and they quickly had a bunch of makeshift bundles. Stoudtshield mused that no Mage-Engineer would ever aknowledge any of those things as less than barbaric, but, hey, they were in a bit of a pickle after all.

To reach the mouth of the ramp was made impossibile by the almost costant stream of Beastmen, so the war-pack had chosen to reach the crenellations by a side of the gigantic siege structure, close as possibile without risking of being overhelmed. Thankfully, the bulk of the Beastmen seemed hell bent only into running forward, into the spears of the massed defenders, with only a part of the monsters giving them their attention.

While his comrades held the Beastmen at bay, Stoutshield quickly took his armor off, slunged his shield from his back and trust his axe in his belt, close to his four-shot gun. He tied a rope around one of the crenellation and then around his own waist.

Holding a bundle in a hand and the rope with the other, he jumped above the crenellations. He turned as he jumped, the braying sea of Beastmen underneath flashing quickly before his eyes, and stomped his feet against the wall.

The rope tensed sharply, but held. Stoutshield sighed a thanks to the Mother, then put himself to work.

Moving with small, controlled jumps, he started to make his way toward the ramp's side. The screams and howls behind him were enough to make his blood ran cold, as well as the knowledge that he was dangling from who knew how many feet from the ground, and at the mercy of any of the boulders that kept hitting the wall.

He had barely thought that, that a rune-covered boulder smashed against the walls, barely ten meters from him. Stoutshield swore, and quickened his pace.

When he reached the side of the ramp, he pushed a hand against it. The dirt that made it up was cold and clinged to his fingers like clotted blood. Stoutshield ignored the worms wriggling against his fingertips as he pushed his paw inside the dirt. He made himself a handhold and then two small footholds by kicking at the wall of earth. Completed this operation, he left the wall and clinged to the ramp itself.

It was like jumping into a marsh. The stink of cadaverial gasses grasped at his throat and for a moment he felt himself choking and his head swirled. Still, he was strong as the foundation stone of a Lodge. He clinged to the dirtwall, reciting one of the old mantras that his father had taught him. The old verses helped him to find back his balance and, when he felt stable enough, he watched above.

The monster was close to where he was, one of his hand grasping at the ramp a little distance away. Stoutshield repressed the instict to hack at that ugly with his axe, and turned. Following his orders, a group of his comrades had followed him, using ropes as he had. Each of them held one of the bundles.

Stoutshield met their gazes and nodded, then turned his attention to the monster above.

Calculating the distance, he began to swing the chain. One swing, two swing, three swings. He let it fly.

The bundle of explosives flew across the air. Maybe the monster above didn't see soar toward it, or maybe just he didn't care, his addled brain not being able to process anything more than just going forward. The bundle smacked against the monster, its roiling flesh quickly lodging it in place. Stoutshield nodded with satisfaction. The creations of the Mages-Engineer were made to resist, even against the power of Chaos. For a bit, they would hold.

Stoutshield grasped and launched one bundle after the other, sending each to smack against a different part of the monster lumbering above. The monster lumbered ever forward. Eventually, only one bundle remained.

Stoutshield was receiving it from the closest of his comrade when one of the projectiles finally found them.

The boulder exploded against only a handful of meters away. The schockwave buffeted them like a storm wind, together with shards of rock. Stoutshield felt a piercing pain in the arm and lost his hold upon the bundle. Screaming, he flailed violently, managing to grasp the bundle only a moment before it fell out of his reach. The chain wrapped itself along his arm, holding it into place.

Stoutshield found himself dangling above the precipice, with a hand holding the rope and the other the bundle. The chain had tightly wounded itself around his arm, forcing it to remain outstretched while the rings of iron painfully pierced his skin. A jagged stump of rock protuted by the other arm, making it bleed profusely and sending blinding pain though him.

He called to his comrades for help, but received only silence as answer. With dismay, he saw that the closest dangled from his rope, body pierced by shards from head to toes. The others were dazed, holding to their ropes, each bleeding by wounds.

Stoutshield grunted, his muscles burning with the effort of holding himself and his charge. Outstrecthed like that, he couldn't gather the strenght to make himself swing to take his footholds again.

His grasp over the rope started to slip. He slided down of an inch, and screamed when the stump of rock shifted in his flesh. The beast was close to the battlements, long, stalk-like hands already out stretching to snatch Deepkin.

Stoutshield gritted his teeth and started to huff violently. He was accostumed to pain. His father had made sure of that. One huff. He started to raise his arm, ignoring the rings sinking into his flesh. Another huff. He clenched his muscles, raising himself up with brute strenght. Many rings of the chain were deformed by the pression. Another huff, but this one was broken by a wail. Stoutshield fell back down. He managed to stop himself only at the last moment. Saliva dribbled down hos chin. Turning his head, he stretched his neck and bit at the chain, searching for the most weakened links. Angry and in pain, he gnawed at the iron until the chain snapped and fell off his arm.

He remained dangling for a moment, resting his breath.

He huffed, held his breath and pushed himself against the dirt wall. At the impact, the pain in his arm was tremendous, but he stubborly held on. Grimacing, he watched up. The beast was before the crenellation now, snatching and feasting upon defenders. The Deepkin were looking about to break and run.

Stoutshield cursed between his teeth. That was not going to happen, not until he had a single breath in his body.

Screaming a mighty curse, he swung the last bundle and threw him up, with all his strenght.

The object flew up and up, and Stoutshield drew his gun. He kissed the handle, just like his father did before he inherited the weapon, and took aim. He waited for a moment, then pressed the trigger.

The bundle detonated just above the monster in a massive ball of fire. The other explosives reacted one after the all. A mighty explosion tore into the body of the Spawn, then another, then another and another and another.

The Spawn's might was immense, but it was distracted, feasting upon the defenders and the explosions took it at point-blank range. They made it stumble, lose its grip and then finally knocked it down the ramp. The monster fell with a horrifying shriek, smashing against the ground tens of meters below, entire herds of Beastmen and monsters being crashed by its bulk. Dust rose to envelope the titanic body, that didn't rose anymore.

Stoutshield dangled by his rope, admiring his own work with a surge of satisfaction amidst the pain and fatigue. Well, that was one nice piece of job, if he had ever seen one. He spat, deciding to get back to work. He pushed himself against the wall once again, starting to make his way toward his comrades and then back into the battlements.

Still, despite victories such as this, there's seemed to be no amount of resistance enough to stop the onslaught.

At the start of the second day of battle, the Rat Stone had been breached in multiple points, with the defenders forced to retreat into the tunnels inside. All the interiors of the fortress had been built with thought of war, but sheer attrition had taken its toll and, despite taking turns into the fight, the defenders were getting worn down. What was more, it's seemed thet the Beastmen's numbers were endless, and that nothing could break the unthinking bloothirst of the monsters; they just kept coming and coming, uncaring of any amount of losses. As such, morale was starting to plummet.

Only the Gate of the Noose held with strenght undimmed, the resistance there brought forward by the tireless leadership of the Warlord and the valor of the elites of the fortress.

And then the Bloodstarved One came.

Maybe he was biding his time, waiting for the Stone to be made pliable enough before making his entrance. Maybe it was the Blood God's desire to hold him back. Whatever the reason, as the dawn rose, the Bloodstarved appeared before the Rat Stone.

He came not as a maelstrom of unprecedented violence nor as an unstoppable monster of destruction. He came with the Beating.

Since the siege had began, the roar hadn't ever stopped. The braying, the screaming, the howling. It hadn't ever stopped. Some Deepkin soldiers had taken their own lives to escape it, others had just gone mad and fallen lifeless, dead without a single blade reaching them. The Chiefs had given order to make plugs with anything available, from wax to bundled cord, and had the troops use them during their turns of rest. The sheer, unrelenting sound had been considered as much as an enemy as the Beastmen's rusted blades and unthinking savagery.

And now, suddenly, all that noice just… ceased.

Silence came in its wake, smothering. On the battlements, Deepkin soldiers gasped for air as the sudden lack of sound pressed upon them like a shroud. It wasn't like the assault had stopped. The Beastmen still came, but their screams just faded into the ether, muffled like someone was drawing them away. The silence that remained was like a physical thing, bearing down upon everything like a giant's hand.

And then, the Beating.

It was a single, unrelenting pulse, the beating of a titanic drum and the beating of a monstrous heart. It towered above everything, engulfing anything else into its shadow. It didn't speak words, but there was an eternity of meaning in it, greater than the sun raising from the jungle.

Thirst for blood, thirst for skulls, anger and hatred; unmeasurable, unrelenting, unstoppable. It defied mortal tongue, any word or gesture laughly insufficient to convey the height of its feelings. Not even a thousand thousand braying herds of monsters was enough to bring across the unescapability of it, the sheer magnitudine and power of it.

There was only the Beating.

And then the Bloodstarved One came.

He came like a gigantic shadow. Fire burned into its core, a visage opened into the beating heart of Khorne himself. Where he marched, the Bestmen just withered and died, the depth of their anger bursting the pathetic mortal vessels that tried to contain it. On the battlements, some of the Deepking turned upon their own kin, throwing their weapons aside to tear at flesh with teeth and claws; others just dropped dead, their heart bursting in their chests.

Only the Shaskar saved the others.

With a mighty shout that reverberated across all the fortress, Jarriz had all the Deepkin avert their eyes from the abomination. Calling upon all of her power, she sang a hymn to the Mother, calling for her purest light to protect her struggling children.

A whisper of hope flickered into the minds of all the ratmen, pushing back the Beating's terrifying influence. The souls of the defenders were shielded, but that was the height of the Shaskar's prowess. Even her power paled before the monster's.

The Bloodstarved One didn't care. He came forward, his long shadow covering the Gates.

The Gates of the Noose was old and sturdy, bathed in the blood of the Chaotic Ones. Through his decades of battle, it had defied the blows of giants and monsters. Even now, it stood defiant against blood and fire and shadow, challenging the Bloodstarved One. But the monster's might was beyond measure.

The first blow made the Rat Stone tremble, the mighty hinges of the Gates benting and buckling. The second blow sent the Gates flying across the courtyard beyond. The mighty towers crumbled and fell to the ground in a rain of stone and debris.

The Gates of the Noose was no more.

Stoutshield and his warrior-band died in the Gate's collapse, crushed between the falling stones.

The Bloodstarved One glanced inside the ruined opening he had made. Beyond, a phalanx of Deepking waited, knees trembling and spears held into weak hands. Kriztikk stood at their fore, his sword, trembling.

The Bloodstarved One grunted with contempt. He hadn't come to take the skulls of weaklings. The Blood Good's tributes were to be grand. The monster turned from the Gate and disappeared.

The fall of the Gate of the Noose was a disaster for the defenders.

With their strongest point of defence broken, they were forced to fall back inside the fortress, but the suddeness of it had left them unprepared for an organized retreat. Many Deepkin were cut down as they tried to retreat, the Beastmen having swarmed inside as soon as the Bloodstarved had disappeared.

Eventually, at the cost of many victims, a line of defence was estabilished in the tunnels, but by now morale was crumbling. What was the point of trying to fight such a monster? No chance of victory could be seen by the defenders anymore.

Projects of retreating were made, even the idea of trying to bring the fortress down upon the beastmen was considered. But to step back would mean to leave the Great Burrow undefended, where all the defenders' families were. And to try to bring down the fortress, even with the unwitting help of the bray-shamans, would require too much time and too much effort to be effective, the mages assured.

The situation was dire.

_The hall felt more cold than he remembered. The wailing of Deepkin echoed from close, and Grand Mage-Engineer Vulq shuddered as he thought back at the corridors packed full with the wounded and the dying._

_The entire leadership of the fortress was there, or at least, the survivors. Chiefs and Commander, all of them bruised and battered, with their weapons covered in blood, none of them not sporting at least a wound. They were huddled around the great table and Vulq couldn't but think to a nest of rats hiding from a storm. The Warlod sat on his throne at the back of the hall, a silent, unmoving statue of iron draped with shadows._

_"And… and this is our situation." Tarniak, the second in command of the fortress, lowered his head and stepped back, his report complete. He was stout, barrel-chested Deepkin, renowed for his courage. It was the first time Vulq heard him stutter._

_A tense silence fell upon the table._

_Everybody knew that they were on their last legs, but nobody dared to speak._

_"Me and my brothers and sisters shall fight to the death." Sharpfang said. The Patriarch was a colossus, dwarfing the others so much that no chair was appropriate for his size. He kneeled on the stone floor, but if it disturbed it, he didn't show it._

_Vulq repressed a shudder. The Patriarch appeared as a dark fire to his inner sight._

_"We can't…" Tarniak began tentatively. He probably wanted to protest about the idea of having all of the venerable warriors throw away their lives in what was essentially a futile venture. He stoppe as soon as the Patriarch moved his smouldering eyes upon him._

_"Stoutshield was my son."_

_Sharpfang added nothing more. He closed his eyes, meaning that the discussion was over._

_Vulq bit his lip in anguish. There was really nothing they could do?_

_The general attention shifted almost naturally to Jarriz. Where the Patriarch was massive, she was diminutive, her little legs dangling from the chair. The layers of thick cloth covered with runes made the ancient Deepkin look like she was swaddled into a nest._

_"My sight is obscured." She said, opening a milky white eye. The faitgues of the siege had taken their toils upon her, making her wrinkles even more deep, but there was no worry in her voice, only matter of fact. "I cannot say what the future holds."_

_A wave of discouragement pressed upon the room. If not even the Shaskar could show the way, then there was really no more hope._

_"Maybe… maybe we should just try to escape…"_

_Vulq wasn't sure who said that. He was tired, and he didn't recognize the voice. But, as soon as those words disappeared, a clanking sound attracted everyone's attention._

_Kriztikk had got up from his throne, making fall the shield that leaned against his knees._

_The Warlord stomped forward, once. "Escape?" He asked. "Should we escape?" There was an indecipherable something in his voice._

_He turned suddenly and gave them his back, a hand on his throne. His shoulders trembled, like he was caught by a violent emotion._

_Vulq was instantly worried. The fortress and its stewardship were Kriztikk's life. To see it fall to his hated enemies, to see his faithful soldiers being slauthered would have taken its toll upon anybody. For a moment, he feared that that toll had been too heavy for the warlord's mind._

_"Foolishness!" Kriztikk's shout rang loud and clear, putting everyone to silence. "Should we escape, leaving the fortress that we've been entrusted with? Never! I will be dead before that happens!"_

_"We could resist for some more hours" Tarniak tried. "Give the people in the Burrow a little more time to evacuate…" The Warlord shutted him off._

_"Ridiculous!" Kriztikk roared. "I never ordered this fortress to be abandoned and i'll never do it! Not now! Can't you all see!" He pointed against the ceiling, trembling. "In the north, the sun… is rising!"_

_Vulq exchanged a worried glance with Tarniak, a motion imitated by many others in the room. Since the world was the world, the sun didn't rise in the north, and, even so, what it could change for them?_

_Kriztikk stomped down hard, making them all jump._

_"Fools!" He roared. "How can you not see it! We've waited so much time! So much time since the sun has gone out! How can you!"_

_That was it. The Warlord must have gone mad. Vulq moved forward, set on putting an end to that charade. Kriztikk was his friend and he couldn't alow him to put himself to ridicule so much._

_But then… he stopped._

_Something new had brushed him, a smell that he was sure wasn't there before. He frowned, sniffing. It smelled like… rain?Yes, just like the jungle after the rain, a smell that spoke of life, and new beginnings. For a moment, Vulq was remainded of his childhood, passed between the dankness of the caverns, trafficking with small machines, and the jungle above, running after his brothers with his little load of fruits._

_He saw that all the other presents felt i; they were sniffing and turning around, just as uncomprehending as he was._

_Out of instinct, he turned to the Shaskar. The old priestess was on her feet, the heavy, falling brows rising to show her milky eyes, an amazed expression on her face. She was looking at the same direction of the Warlord, and Vulq felt himself follow her gaze._

_And then… he saw it._

_Beyond walls and tunnels, lands and mountains, a warmth, rising, taking flight, nesting in his bosom. It speak to him of a promise, long overdue, now finally blossoming; it spoke of kin protected and spared ratlings, of sieged life preserved and courage undimmed, of hope, and salvation._

_The Sun, rising in the north._

_He moved his mouth, searching for words, but none came. None could come. No word was enough for that. Some of the Deepkin present fell to their knees; other sobbed. Sharpfang stood unmoved but his slightly trembling paws._

_Vulq turned to the Shaskar, a question in his eyes. The old priestess just nodded at him, his old eyes glinting._

_The Warlord spread his arms wide, a triumphant laughter raising from his chest and flooding the room and its stunned audience._

_"The King comes!"_

Despite their desperate situation, the Deepkin defending the fortress felt an inner glow in their souls, and threw themselves into the fray with renewed bravery. Nothing of the sort had ever been said, but each of them knew for certain that help was on the say and that it would come that same day.

Until noon they resisted, waging violent clashes and running battles against the Beastmen in the tunnels.

Patriarch Sharpfang distinguished himself greatly during this battles, reaping a fearsome tolls upon the Beastmen. It was him and his brother and sisters that held the line at the Echoing Vaults against a trio of maddening Jabberslythes, eventually blocking the passage with the corpses of the monsters.

Overhelmed, the defenders eventually abandoned the tunnels and retrated to the central sanctum of the fortress, a massive hall that was used for religious purpose. There, they made their last stand.

Under a vault frescoed with the images of the Mother, bruised and battered but laughing with triumph, Warlord Kriztikk led the charge of his surviving warriors against the braying horde, the Shaskar Jarriz at his side; while High Mage-Engineer Vulq led the efforts of the last mages still alive.

The phalanx of the Deepkin smashed through the Beastmen, cutting down any monster on its path. The Kinrat opened a path in which the Patriarchs threw themselves. Sharpfang was at their fore, howling the name of his murdered child as he crushed bunches of enemies with each swing of his gigantic blade.

The Patriarch duelled against the Doomlord leading the assault, a powerful liutenant of the Bloodstarved One that had led the assault inside the fortress in place of his master. Tree times the Patriarch was downed by the blows of his monstrous adversary and three times he rose, battered and bruised, but defiant. In the end, he grasped at the haft of the massive axe of the Doombull and held it tight.

The two titanic adversaries fought for control of the weapon, the mighty shout of the Patriarch against the endless braying of the Doombull.

But Sharpfang proved himself stronger. He threw himself against the monster, showing him down. Grappling him by the horns, he lifted the maddened monster in the air and smashed him down on the floor, the black rock of the Rat Stone breaking the abomination's neck.

Without their leader, the bloodthirst that had sustained the Beastmen seemed to finally dry out. They broke and run, and no other monster came to replace them.

As they escaped, the survivors turned as one toward the north. From there, despite walls and tunnels, they could hear the blaring of a horn, a single, bright note raising against madness and unchained bloodthirst.

Outside, the mass of the Beastmen turned its attention form the fortress and turned toward the north horizon, upon which an army was appearing. The Bloodstarved One held his own gaze upon it as well, and on the shining figure that led it.

Inside the fortress, Warlord Kriztikk raised his halberd and howled. It was a howl of pain for the Rat Stone, its walls breached and halls violated; it was for the blood that had bathed the fortress, for the corpses of all the Deepkin littering its tunnels, for all the families that wouldn't see a loved one return. But it spoke also of vengeance soon to fall, of madness punished and defiance against the darkness. The howl of Kriztikk rose high, soaring in the sky above while the two armies marched to meet in battle.

The Second Battle of the Rat Stone or the Deliverance of the South has passed into history as one of the greatest of that age. Deepkin historians divided it from the First, as the defenders of the fortress itself played no part in it. It was during this titanic clash that the Under-King Pantagrel strode to battle, the full might of the newly-founded Under-Kingdom assembled behind him for the first time in history.

Like a giant the King went and the Bloodstarved One advanced to meet him. Their clash shock the earth and make the sky tremble. The monster was mighty beyond mortal measure, but the King was his equal and proved to be the master.

Pantagrel was the victor, and from his victory the Under-Kingdom was united under the line of the Under-Kings, a unity that continues even today.

The Warlord of the Ratstone was raised to be one of the first Kinlord, and the Rat Stone rose even more in prominence, becoming the center of a new Deepkin expansion into the southern jungles, to the point that it's a Depthlord that rules from the mighty fortress today.

The massacre of the Beastmen was such that centuries had to pass before the monsters could return to threaten the Deepkin.

Even today, the two Battles of the Rat Stone stand as a testament of the might of the Under-Kingdom and of the ratmen that inhabit it. It has entered into legend and it's still one of the most beloved stories between those taught to ratlings, as it shows how even in the deepest darkness and against the direst of odds the Deepkin can triumph and the sun can returns, as it was promised, long time ago, an age ago.


	3. Deepkin Army List: Lords

_**Lords: **_

**Warlord:** Picked by the ranks of the Oathsworn, the few ratmen born with horns, Warlords are those that showed the most attitude for the art of command between their brethren, and stand amongst the best of the best that the Under-Kingdom can offer.

The magic woven upon them from birth grows them to hulking strenght, making each of them into a powerful warrior fully capable of cleaving a Rat-Ogre in half with a single swing. Still, the Warlord's true strenght lie into the mind. A Warlord is an accomplished tactician, having passed the majority of his life between study and training. Before commanding armies on his own, he will have passed though countless screenings, as well as having sharpened his fangs as a pupil to an elder Warlord on campaign, learning both from accomplished generals and the field of war itself.

On the battlefield, the Warlord stands at the rear, noble bearing and calm countenance as all around his advisors discuss and messengers bring news; his hulking frame is bedecked with magnificent armor crafted by the greatest Mage-Engineers, blessed sigils wrought by Ur-Shaskar blaze upon the polished metals. With keen sight, he observes the battlefield, drawing from his wealth of knowledge and experience to follow the flow of battle and change his tactics as situation demands. It is often said that a veteran Warlord doesn't notice a possible point for a breakthrough as much as he smells it, so much his ability to read enemy formations is engrained into him.

When the time comes, the Warlord receives his weapon, always a magnificent piece, maybe augmented by the working of the Leagues, from an aide and takes to the field. A band of Oathsworns brethren comes behind him, bodyguards that are as strong as their lords and will lay down their lives for him. Together, they form a wreaking balls of power that smashes though enemy elites, while the Deepkin soldiers squeak into exultation at seeing the might of their leader.

Warlords are inspiring figures, considered by the Deepkin to be both blessed, great champions that raise to the highest glories, and cursed by a destiny that shackles them to duty forevermore. And still, they bear that destiny with pride and stubborness. Their faith into the Goddess and her design for her children is unbreakable, matched only by the hatred they have for the Horned Rat. They are born and bred to fight and lead, and nurture an unwavering loyalty to the dream of a Skavenkind freed from the corruption of Chaos. It's a dream they feel they have come into this world to realize, and will fight the hardest to make it a reality.

**Ur-Shaskar:** Risen from the ranks of their exalted order, the Ur-Shaskar are the most revered religious figures of the Under-Kingdom. They are the oracles of the Mother and their words are credited to come from the Goddess herself. Where a Ur-Shaskar goes, religious fervor rises to a fever pitch, masses of skaven swarming to bear witness to her hallowed presence.

A Shaskar doesn't rise to this exalted rank by political connections or intrigue; only the most zealous, the most pious, the most spiritually pure can hope to reach it. There's no council of peers to bribe and to negotiate with, only the Goddess herself can nominate a Ur and her eyes pierce though any lie. When the time comes for her blessing to fall upon a worthy, the other Shaskar see their sister radiating the light of the Mother; without a word, they kneel before her, recognizing her as their superior and guide. Ur-Shaskar usually stand as at the head of the Church, sheperding the masses, while some search for deeper communion with their Goddess or wander across the Under-Kingdom, divine whispers leading them to unperscrutable objectives. Still, should the Mother's call bring them to the battlefield, they don't hesitate to enter the path of war. In such cases, they act as advisors to the Warlords, their insight keenly given attention to, or even take command themselves, the secular commanders bowing to their higher understanding.

The Ur-Shaskar are living conduits of the power of the Goddess. Their magic is of divine source and as such its power is overhelming. With a gesture, they can smite the enemies of the Deepkin with hammers of light, call the comets from the sky or project courage in hearts and new vigor into limbs. The Goddess gift them with visions, allowing them to see uncoming dangers and steers the faithful to safety.

They don't make use of the Winds; their might comes from the Mother and from the heart of the world itself. As such, they are anathema to Chaos. In their presence, Daemons scream in pain and horror, their bindings to the material world unreveling. Storms of Winds are becalmed and warlocks find their spells fail and disappear. Corruption is contained and burned away. There are even stories of gigantic Chaos Spawns burned to a cinder by purifying fire, their souls set free while their mutations burned away until only the original body remained.

The devotion the Ur-Shaskar can evoke is awe-inspiring. Even the lowliest of Deepkin will fight all the harder in their hallowed presence, keeping hope even against impossible odds. The Deepkin will give their lives to protect their beloved oracles, but this doesn't mean that the Ur-Shaskar will stand behind and let them do all the work. Many Ur are more than ready to take to the frontline, their blows augmented by the arcane might coursing though their veins. More than a Greater Daemon has thought victory assured once reached melee range with a withered priestess, only to be sent flying back in pieces from a thundering blow by a staff blazing with light. What's more, the Ur will defend their faithful, their god-given mission protecting the children of the Mother; to their songs, blows will fail to find their marks while the weapons of the Deepkin will hit with unerring accuracy; shields of light will raise to block incoming projectiles, harmful magic will be dispersed, its effects nullified.

All the Ur-Shaskar are rewered figures, each of them a powerful icon of the Deepkin soul and of the fight against corruption. They are the eyes and voice of the Goddess, their souls blazing with faith and power. Is it they that bear the ancient promise of purity and is it them that will lead the children of the Goddess to its conclusion, whatever it might be.

**Great Father:** The Patriarchs are fearsome warrior, each of them given might enormous by his rebirth. And still, there are those between them that stand higher still. Some are hermits, returning to the Under-Kingdoms in imoments of great peril, others are heads of enormous Lodges, having fostered generations of children and grandchildren; all bring the weight of centuries with them.

They are called Great Fathers, and are the oldest of the Patriarchs. Their whiskers are long, their fur gray and their memory stretches far. They have seen much, learned much, witnessed much and all of their knowledge, they bring to war. Age has only added weight to their bodies, making them as great and powerful before a younger Patriarch as this one is before a Deepkin that haven't seen the Mausoleum yet. Their minds are untouched by the long years; instead, they have learned the art of patience to its bottom, a trait that make them into terrifying opponents. A Great Father will wait, day after day, with seemingly endless calm, for his enemy to make a mistake, before unleashing, like a thunderbolt, complex plans born from the experience and abilities of centuries. Frenzied Minotaurs charges will find their prey slip away, Deepkin already moving their formation to cut off the monsters from the support of their smaller brethren, while skirmishers will harry them to destruction, not a single mark found by their bloodgreed. Goblin ambushes will find the defenders ready to meet them, just as another assault comes from seemingly nowhere. There's no part of the art of war that the Great Fathers haven't touched in their long lives, no methods or tricks that they haven't mastered.

Each death they have bore witness to is a pebble in the pits of their soul, each child they had to bury a smoking spark hidden beneath the ash. And when the time comes for them to take the field, all they have accumulated comes to the light, erupting into displays of anger and might that are awesome to behold. Doombulls are wrestled to the ground, Wyverns dragged down from the sky with chains, Warbosses stomped flat, Cygors crushed by their own thrown back projectiles, Dragons pierced through by oversized bullets. An enraged Great Father is a match even for a Greater Daemon, his strenght all but supernatural. Spells bounce off their wrinkled bodies and they are able to shrug off insane amounts of punishments, all the while they hand over the punishment for the deaths of their beloved children.

Born by the tomb and bred upon the life of the ages, the Great Fathers go. For their children, they march. For their children, they battle. For their children, they will triumph.

_Ura the Silent_

_There are many names between the Deepkin to call a particular Patriarch. The First Father, He-Who-Endures, the Evilbreaker, the Hammer of Daemons, Father War, the Great Guardian, the Oathbearer and many more, but he's most known by the name of Ura the Silent. _

_When talking about him, legend go together with truth, and it's impossible to say where one ends and one begin. An enormous amount of stories, songs and ballads the Deepkin have wrought about him, each a mirabolant adventure in some far away parts of the world. Some stories says that during his youth, he was captured by the bloodthirsty Dark Elves, and brought into their frozen motherland together with his family. In a arena whose floor was made of bones, he would fight for the entertainment of the cruel lords of that land, crushing anything they threw at him. But not as strong as he his family was, and he was forced to watch as they, one after the other, breathed their last, powerless to save them. And then, with heart as cold and ice and bright as fire, he went into a terrifying rampage, flooding the arena with blood, making a mountain of the dead, smashing columns and breaking doors, until the twisted coliseum fell apart with a scream of horror, their lords buried into its blood-stained stones. _

_Other stories speak of his imprisonment into dreaded Hellpit, where he and his two brothers and two sisters were experimented upon by the mad scientists making their domain there. Into filth and despair he lived, his flesh and will too strong to fail to perverted science, but not so for his brethren, changed and remade into a single, monstrous being. They would sing to each other in the darkness, and to their mournful songs, Ura broke his bonds. His destructive rampage through Hellpit made the hells themselves tremble, his howls of fury and anguish raising to drown the sounds of the malformed fiends he tore to pieces. _

_Other stories tells that the first part of his life he passed into the Realm of Chaos itself. Shackled to a pillar of brass and iron together with his brethren, he endured the torments of Daemons, watching in horror while his brothers and sisters broke under the torture and were consumed by the pillar, their screaming faces appearing on its twisted surface. In anger, Ura broke his bonds and used the chains to throttle his jailer to death. He then destroyed the pillar, freeing his brethren's souls, and embarked into an epic journey that would see him return to the material world. _

_All the stories agree on some points, but, most importantly they agree on two things. First, after his escape from whatever place he was imprisoned to, Ura took to the world, embarking into an epic journey full of adventures and legends. And second, Ura is the same priest that, together with the three priestesses, led the first Deepkin migration that brought to the foundation of Haven. For this reason, he is called the First Father. He, as much as the Goddess herself, is father of all the Deepkin and as such is honored. _

_Of his later life, legends and myths became even more numerous and wildly immaginative. Many stories see Ura at the four corners of the world, engaging in mortal combat against the most powerful enemies or conquering impossible odds. He would have exchanged swordblows with the Witch-King Malekith, leaving his mark upon the dread sorcerer's armor before jumping off the impossibly tall walls of Naggaroth and making his escape. He would have fought dragons, sending wicked ones plummeting from the sky after having pierced their swings with javelins or humbled prideful ones by sneaking while they slept, stealing all their treasures and then tying their legs and feet and swings together. He would have assailed a human city, alone, just to save a ratling, putting the army to flight before escaping with his prize. He would have walked into the greatest halls of the dwarfs, having obtained access by guile and cunning. He would have plunged a poisoned spear into the Wild King Orion's heart, before showing the cure to her Queen Ariel while disguised as a god. He would have faced the immensity of the oceans with only a raft as its ship, travelling to the far east, where Cathay stands, to Lustria, where he spoke with the great frogs that hold rule there, to even fabled Ulthuan itself by latching to the back of a sea dragon. There, he would have stolen a spark from the great flame of Asuryan, gnawed barks from the trees of the Queen's Groove, outwitted mages and defeated proud warriors. He would have walked the deep ways of the earth, where fire burn bright and rocks speak, seen the breath of the heavens, visited the flying castles of the last Titans and still more._

_So much is told by songs and stories that it's almost impossible to undestand what's truth and what's not. The only appearances of Ura that the Deepkin can be completely sure of is when he has appeared to help them. Always, in a time of crisis and uncertainty, the First Father appears, his guidance leading the children of the Goddess to triumph and salvation. _

_Still, a cycle of myths remains a must around the campfires, the one that speak of the adventures of Ura into the Realm of Chaos. _

_These stories say that he stalked the lands at the northern edge of the world, where the breath of the Gods waxes strong, and killed the terrible monsters of those tormented lands, then using their pelts to fashion himself a disguise with which he passed through the gates into the Realm of Chaos. There, through a convuluted series of adventures, he played any kind of insults and challenges to the Chaos Gods and their servants. He stole the skulls of his brethren from the Skull Throne of Khorne, set ablaze a wing of the Palace of Pleasures of Slaanesh, punctured the great cauldron of Nurgle, broke the Shimmering Halls of Tzeentch and a moltitude more, defeating and baffling daemons. Then, back on the material plane, he fought the attempts at revenge of the Gods, like weaving a sack of his own fur and used it to bag the three heads of the Great Hound Karanak, sent by Khorne, forcing the beast to run around blind until it had to get back to his master to be freed from the sack. And so on, enough to fill book after book. _

_Whatever the truth lies, Ura is amongst the most revered figures of the Deepkin pantheon, second only to the Mother herself. He appears to them as a great Patriarch, his massive form covered by a heavy robe, stained and worn-out like after a long journey. A cowl covers his head, from which his snout emerges, sniffing softly. His eyes glow into the darkness beneath the cowl, burning like stars. In a paw, he holds a long staff of weathered wood befitting of a pilgrim while in the other he spreads incense with a heavy censer. He's a figure imbued with regality and strenght, radiating calm and steadiness. Where he stands, the sky darkens and storm clouds gather, while far away the thunder rumbles, announcing to the wicked that retribution has come. _

_The Deepkin worship him as one of the founding fathers of their race, the one thanks to they can decide their destiny and fight against corruption. And still, to them, he's not only this; he's also a true God, a Deepkin that has trascended mortality to ascend to a higher plane of existence and that now stalks the land to defend the children f the Goddess and punish the wicked. They believe that as long they fight the darkness, Ura will be there to watch over them, their greatest champion and the custodian of the promise that for all the Skaven, one day, the dawn will return. _


	4. Deepkint Army List: Heroes

_**Heroes:**_

**Shieldchief:** When Warlords pass down their orders, it's the Shieldchief that makes sure that they are executed by the common soldiery. Together with Spearchiefs, Shieldchiefs are the backbone of the Deepkin army, mighty captains risen from the rank-and-file through their own abilities and devotion. Standing on the front-lines, armed with blazing weapons of power, they bellow orders and fight, while making sure that the shieldwall remain strong. They are rallying points and a source of inspiration for the Kinrats as well as a reminder of duty. Shieldchiefs's baton blows to those that exit formation are nothing to scoff at!

The Shieldchief is a veteran of many campaigns and knows the secrets of front-line battle, having began his career like any other Kinrat, holding a bloodied spear and a battered shield, waiting for the enemy charge. He's an accomplished warrior, his spearcraft refined by a hundred clashes, and can remain in combat while his soldiers swap front-line duty to rest. With tough body, tough spirit and deep faith in the Goddess, he really represents the toughness proper of the Deepkin. Tales speak of mind-boggling feats of endurance performed by one of these soldier-commanders, their shield an island in the most grinding combats.

As a commander, the Shieldchief will maneuver his soldiers, his bellowed commands bringing complex movements and change of formations into being. The relentelessy drilled Kinrats, more often than not with the same Spearchief as their trainer, will obey and woes to those that get it wrong or not move fast enough! It's latrine duty for them after battle!

Battles have been won by the intraprendence of single Shieldchiefs, their soldiers moving to seize iniziatives that would have been lost with the time that a command from the higher-ups would need to arrive. If a Warlord is the army's brain, the Shieldchiefs are its muscles, managing locale combat while their superiors keep an eye on the whole.

Shieldchiefs are distinguished by the common Kinrat by better armors and weapons, both of which usually magical in some fashion, and by a stout body that will have played a part in their choosing. They are all invariably very loyal and religious, so relics of the Goddess, maybe a tuft of fur from a Shaskar or a souvenir brought from Haven, will often appear in their outfits, together with some emblem of loyalty to the secular powers; painted images, tattoos or engravings of broken horns or the ever-present inverted triangle are some of the possibilities. They will also carry the baton of command representing their rank, often used on friends or foe alike, and a leather pouch containing the magic scrolls that, if read, will allow him to cast some minor spells.

Grizzled veterans of war, the Shieldchiefs might not be be the most noble or wondrous-looking of those walking the battlefield, but these stout, heavy-set Skaven, with the handles of their weapons smoothed by use and their armors covered with dust, mud and blood, have might, stubborness and loyalty enough to face a Wargor without a flinch, as well as a wealth of knowledge and tricks to make sure that their spears find their mark. And their tallies go long indeed.

_Chief Grok_

_Many heroes and champions have risen from the ranks of the Kinrats, but very few can match the sheer tally of victories of Grok Straightwhiskers or, more commonly, Chief Grok the Mighty._

_This Kinrat Spearchief has fought rampaging Beastmen in the torrid jungles of the south, lead his Brigade to battle into the deepest of the depths, campaigned in the north against the Greeskins tribes infesting the mountains. He has followed Matriarch Brighteye in her journey to Naggarond and fought the frozen-hearted elf kin that live there, he has taken part to the first campaigns against the Corrupted Kin, and faced the terrible Ogres of the Burned Lands to the far east. In all the campaigns he has took part of, he has always distinguished himself, both as a brave commander and an exceptional warrior. It was he that led the defence of the Burrow of Whitechurch, rallying the belegueared defenders and pushing back a horde of Greenskins. In the twentytwo days long battle of the Breached Door, it was Grok that threw Tyrant Ogdrir Mountainheart down the Ogre Lord's mountain fortress, making him plunge to his doom; Dreadlord Varanis fell before him, his skull crushed by a shiedlblow. It was he that wielded the spear that pierced the heart of the Bloodthirster Azk'hakar during the battle of the Seventh Night and it was always Grok that shielded the fallen Kinlord Truzur from Skaven ambushers, giving time to his bodyguards to bring the lord to safety._

_During his long decades of service, Grok has fought against almost any race of the world and reaped a fearsome toll upon the enemies of the Under-Kingdoms, as well as training and leading countless ratmen soldiers. He's a hero, known through the entirety of the Under-Kingdom and a model for any young ratling, and has received enough commendations and medals to fill two big cabinets and then some more._

_As a trainer, Grok is the nightmare of any soldier under his command, making them run and train until they feel their souls leave thei body. Still, it's only to prepare them to the dangers ahead. He is ready to give his life to protect them on the battlefield, and his soldiers reply with the same devotion, with the most veteran ready to follow him into the jaws of hell itself._

_Grok is a heavy-set Skaven Deepkin, with a large paunch and flabby cheeks. His skin is leathery, made as tough as light armor by decades of campaining in all the corners of the known world. Countless scars cover him and his left ear is only half of what it used to be._

_He has a jolly temper and likes to joke and laugh. In fact, he has laughted even before Azk'hakar, and the Bloodthirster still remembers it._

_On the battlefield, Grok is covered by his rune-covered armor, a magnificent piece blessed seven times by a Ur-Shaskar that protects him from material and magical attacks alike. His thick shield is said to being able to take a cannonball without splintering and still bears the emblem of his Lodge, although he doesn't see it from the time he was a ratling; is covered with minutely-written oaths of loyalty and discipline. Medals, always polished to a sheen, hangs from his breastplate, but they are always the least important that Grok has received. Those he cares the most, like the one he has received by the paw of the King himself, he keeps always in his quarters, jealously under lock._

_His spear is called Rageshutter, and the blood from the heart of a Bloodthirster has been used to empower it to a deadly sharp point. As a back-up weapon, Grok has no sword, but a heavy blackjack dangle from his belt. Jokingly called by his owner Tusslebreaker, it has seen use both in smashing open Ogre skulls and in motivating lazy recruits, rarely meeting failure in both uses._

_Grok has no head for books and studies, and he knows it. For this reason, he has always rejected attempts from his superiors to promote him to higher roles, since it would require for him to take to school. His place is on the battlefield or in the training yards, not in class. Still, it's some years that his eye has been taken by a solidly-built female Deepkin working into a mushroom farm. Grok has met her during a leave from the front, and the two have hit off nicely. He kept visiting her any time he can and his will on the matter has built over time. Now, he's mustering the courage to ask her the fateful question. After all, except an eternal uncertainty of his return and some money, what an old soldier like him can offer? While he tries to work out his indecision, he has taken to try and learn to write poetry, hoping to impress her. The results until now have been nothing less than atrocious, but Grok keeps trying, undeterred._

**_What? You want to eat my soul? The souls of my soldiers? Sure, buddy, keep that talk. Dammit, i am so scared. Here, get close, i'll show your_** **_post__ at the table. Eat this! _**

**_Chief Grok at a unnamed Daemon_**

**Shaskar:** Priestesses, oracles, bringers of hopes, foes of darkness. The Shaskar are all of this and more. Chosen by the Goddess between her priesthood, they are endowed with divine power and sent to protect the children of their Goddess. Following their god-given missions, they hold guardianship over the Deepkin souls, repelling corruption and upholding purity both by word and deed.

The Shaskar are venerated religious figures, emboding the mission of purity followed by the Under-Kingdom. They can hear the whisper of the Silent Goddess and have art in interpreting her will. For this, their words are often regarded as coming from the Goddess herself. They are forsworn by taking command, though, and will act instead as advisors and guides to the more martially-inclined Warlords.

When time for battle comes, the Shaskar brings zeal unmatched and soul blazing with power. They are given martial training, but their true strenght lies in their ability to channel the might of the Goddess into existence through their songs. When their voice is a whispered litany, wounds mend, weapons hold even beyond the point of breaking and hearts are made stalwart once more. When it rises into a crescendo, shield splinters and stone break, blazing light is conjured to burn and consume the foe and mighty barriers raise to intercept blows.

Shaskar uphold understanding and acceptance as their code. Their empathy is mighty and, with humility, they accept the multi-fold weaknesses of mortal life. Only to true evil and the corruption of Chaos they bear no acceptance. To these forces, they offer no wrath or hatred, but just cold disdain, a wall upon which the corrupting forces cannot find purchase. This makes them anathema to Chaos in all its forms. The damned cower from the blazing light of their eyes while Daemons burn from the purity of their souls. A feat that has made them horrifying opponents for the corrupted Skaven is their ability to shatter Warpstone and dispel its influence; to see the emblem of the power of the Horned One undone throw their verminous hearts into panic unprecedented.

Whoever Chaos lurks, the Shaskar goes, their songs heralding doom to the wicked.

_The Chaos Sorcerer known as Trubluk the Purstained watched with paternal glee the greenish fog advanced across the temple hall, pushing back the ratmen invaders that had dared to try and disrupt his rituals. He burbled a laugh as some of them, the slowest to back away, fell to the ground choking, his heavy rolls of rotten fat trembling with the motion._

_These seemed different by the Skaven he was accostumed to; they were taller, had better armors and weapons and moved in a disciplinated manner totally at odds with the clumsy fenzy he had grown to expect. Still, it made no difference. Before the gifts blessed by the Greatfather no mortal could stand. They would make better sacrifices than the scrawny ones._

_Suddenly, a contralto voice rose from behind the ratmen, speaking arcane words in song. Trubluk frowned as the magic in it brushed against his spiritual senses._

_As he watched, the ratmen formation opened to let a cowled Skaven step forward. To his surprise, he realized that it was a female, something that he thought didn't exist. The female Skaven was heavily robed and held a gnarled staff aloft, the strange gem at its top pulsing with light as she sang._

_Surprise turned to dismay as Trubluk saw the glorious mist of pestilence retreat and, impossibly, start to wither away._

_With horror and outrage born by witnessing such a vile magic, he barked for his Rotbringers to stop her. The Chaos Warriors charged, howling thanks to the Rot Lord, but the Skaven formed a wall of shields around the witch, holding them at bay. Meanwhile, the song rose into a crescendo, the light of the witch's staff growing and growing._

_Desperate, Trubluk garbled the Sixth Rhymes of Putrefaction, calling upon the might of the Grandfather. A greenish gale swept the chamber, seeking to melt flesh from bones. The Skaven witch called a name, her voice as loud as the thunder, and a storm of shining wind rose to keep the plague at bay. Then, her song reached its maximum and the light of her staff flashed as bright as the sun._

_The Chaos Warriors were obliterated, the light devouring them whole. Trubluk screamed in agony as his rotted flesh burned. He fell down, rolling crazily around in the attempt to purge that fire that was devouring him. Rising his head toward the witch, he saw one of the ratmen run towards him._

_The last thing he saw was a heavy mace dashing towards him, silouheted by that cursed light, then everything turned to black._

**Mage-Engineer:** The Leagues of the Mage-Engineers are associations that specialize into a blend of magic, alchemy and technology. Their members are mages, scientistis and builders of arcane machinery that channel the Winds, steam or the intense fires that burn deep underground to generate great feats, be it in peace or during war. From simple mechanisms to the cutting-edge of technomancy, is it they that care for it, making sure that the engines of the Under-Kingdoms always function at best output. The Leagues offer also body augmentations and arcane weapons, and manage the industrial production of arms for the Deepkin armies.

When called to war, the Mage-Engineers bring their expertise to bear on the battlefield. Covered with clanking techno-armor, generators holding the fires of the depths and other bizarre mechanisms chugging smoke and steam, the Engineers present an outlandish appearance to say the least. More often than not, they present some kind of augmentation, like binoculars in place of eyes, mechanical prosthetics replacing limbs or a iron claw at the end of the tail. Mage-Engineers, especially the most succesful ones, are considered eccentric figures and given a wide bearth from common ratmen lest one is caught in whatever crazy experiment the strange scientists are working on. Their strange get-ups don't help their popularity, Leagues have a strong sub-culture of their own and sometimes their members wear strange hats; nor does the fact that you don't succed into the Leagues without a great deal of love of your work, - jumping up and down in joy for a succesful experiment while your laboratory is a smoking wreck around you and people from the street can see you through holes in the walls it's not considered strange - but that's not to say that they are openly distrusted. Mages-Engineers provide unreplaceable help to Deepkin society, both in fixing warmachines and even in medical attentions. Many hideously wounded Deepkin have been saved by one of those Mages, replacing lungs with pistons or sewing back lost limbs.

On battle, the Mages-Engineers make for a fearsome sight. With a chittered incantation and a vigorous pumping of levers, they can throw globs of lava at their enemies, shoot fireballs or summon walls of fire that engulf entire formations. A coil-powered rifle can become a deadly weapon in the paws of a keen-eyed Mage-Engineer, sniping down a Chaos Knight from hundreds of meters away, while a flamethrower and a Mage-Engineer with no fear of minor burnings can become the bane of swarms of monsters. Even in melee, the Mages-Engineers are nothing to sneeze at. Their armors and prostethics give them strenght, with the most martial-oriented of their numbers even wielding heavy glaives that burn hot enough to cleave armor like it's butter.

Mages-Engineers can be eccentric or even bizarre, but their destructive power is undeniable and many enemies have learned to dread the coming sound of clanking and chugging.

_Xktamar the Strange One_

_Deepkin all share a strong resistance to Chaos, this making them very unfit to become vessels for deamonic possessions. Still, there are very few amongst them that, for a reason or the other, fall short regarding this resistance. These are always the slightly unhinged that lived and worked closely with magic and that the corruption infesting Skavenkind reached with greater strenght._

_Xktamar was all of this and more. The female Deepkin was a low-level clerk working at the League of Deepfall. Known for her eccentricities and her rare form of susceptibility, she was assigned jobs as harmless as possible, ranging from writing letters to cataloguing the vast amount of books and scrolls of the archives, leaving her plenty of time to indulge into her life passion: reading and study. It was so all-consuming that between the many visitors of the archives passed a joke that said that the over-zealous, ever-excited little Deepkin even slept in there, in a nest formed by books and scrolls, and that she could stun a Patriarch in submission with her blabbing about her most beloved readings if not stopped in time._

_It seemed like Xktamar would pass all her life like this, but destiny had others plans._

_Deepfall was subjected to the insidious aims of none other than a Verminlord. Poxamor, that was his name, sought to turn the Deepkin living in the Burrow one against the other by unleashing a wave of corrupting energy that bathed the city. The Deepkin faltered under the magical attack, but their natural resistance allowed them to resist the unnatural compulsion even while it drained them of strenght. Eventually, Paxamor was banished by the conjoined use of Shaskar magic and blunt trauma from an enraged Patriarch, but his magic had found at least one of its mark._

_Taken over by frenzy, Xktamar burst out of the archives, seeking to rip apart other Skaven. Luck wanted that the first Deepkin she met was a Matriarch, and all Xktamar earned for her troubles was a smack on the head with a broom that would have felled a Carnosaur._

_None is quite sure as to the reasons of what happened after. Maybe the magic of the Verminlord somehow unlocked Xktamar's inner potential, maybe the smack did something to her brain. Whatever the reason, when Xktamar woke up, she did so with a jump and a squeak of triumph that made jump all the Deepkin administering to her, as well as almost sending the lead doctor leaning over her to the Goddess via headbutt._

_From that day, Xktamar was the same no more. Her brain positively boiled with ideas, her massive knowledge now mixing with volcanic geniality. She had been uncapable of magic before, owing it to her condition, but now she found the Winds as easy to control as it was breathing. Even her susceptibility had disappeared, leaving her attuned to magic as never before. Also, she was ten times more overactive and ten times madder._

_Under the aghast, and a bit scared, gazes of his peers, she started an overhelming climb on the ranks of the Mage-Engineers, fuelled by insanity bouts, strokes of absolute genius and enough eccentricities to leave the most wizened skaven of the Leagues balking in disbelief. She could go on for day and day working on some of her crazy projects without taking a whiff of sleep; the moment the project ended, she crumpled into death-like slumbers that made people think multiple times that she had bit it, just to get back with a squeak and return to work like nothing had happened. One day she presented to slack-jawed audiences of her peers marvels like the Techno-Turbine or a new kind of alloy that permitted circuitry impossible before, the other she ran naked into the streets while throwing scrambled eggs in the faces of those she met, a throng of despairing assistants on her heels. Something sure is wrong with her head, but still, who can say to understand a true crazy genius?_

_Xktamar takes frenquently to battle, relishing the chance to test her more war-inclined inventions in first person. On the battlefield, she rides on The Great And Majestic XY20184295 Destruct1tron, a terrifying, smoking, clanking, multi-legged contraption that can shout lighting and cannonballs, trample over enemy opposition and has wings that do nothing but sure look pretty._

_Xktamar is fairly small and scrawny for a Deepkin, and even for a corrupted Skaven, a problem that she remedies to by wearing a massive exoskeleton full of spinning gears and pumping pistons. The exoskeleton is a miracle of technomancy, its special alloy allowing it to shrug off even a direct hit by a Warplighting Cannon while its hydraulic-powered arms are limbs are strong enough to crush a Rat Ogre with a single blow. On one arm, it wears a magic-amplifier that Xktamar uses to channel her magic into devastating jets of scalding steam or angry fire, while in the other it wields a massive shield fitted with an oversized version of a multi-shot rifle. The bullets of this weapon are all energized monstrosities that can pierce a hole through a castle wall and keep going. A smoking Techno-Turbine whirrs over its back, sucking up the Winds and providing energy for machine and spells alike._

_Anything can be said about the madness affecting Xktamar the Strange One, but her capability for destruction? That has never been in doubt._

_**Truffles? Truffles?! TRUFFLEEEEESSS!? I will ro-ro-ro-ro-ro… I WILL ROAST YOU ALIVE! LET'S FUCKING DO THIIIIIISSS! BLABLABLABLABLUAAAAAH!**_

_**Estimed Mage-Engineer Xktamar, seconds before crushing the prototype flying machine she was driving against a Daemon Herald of Khorne. Truffles were never mentioned. (She survived, somehow)**_

**Scartail:** Legends say that long time ago a now-forgotten Lodge was destroyed, leaving only a survivor, a female Deepkin, the last of her family. Arising from the ashes, she discarded her name and took the one of Scartail, as the only things remaining to her were her scars and her tail-affixed spear. In search of righteous vengeance, she forgot any pursuit but the research of martial strenght. She trained relentlessly, becoming a warrior, a champion, a monster. With tremendous might she took her revenge and then, the spirits of her family put to rest, she founded a school and passed on her teachings of combat and dedication.

Much time has passed from then and the original story has passed into myth, but its legacy still endures. Numerous martial schools dot the Under-Kingdom, each teaching their methods of combat and each passing on the virtue of dedication to martial pursuit. Many of them claim to descend from the school of the original Scartail but none can prove it beyond doubt and this will probably never change. Still, the title of Scartail is passed by these schools to those that can master their rigorous trials.

A Scartail is more than a simple champion; he or she is a Deepkin that has given themselves to the pursuit of physical might, leaving everything else aside. These warrior-monks can appear in a dizzying array of appearances, from female Deepkin trained in the deadly art of the Three-Pronged Death to massive brutes hacking down enemies with enormous halberds, to snipers adept in the use of the long-range musket. They all share incredible skill in their own way of battle, polished to a sharpened point by costant training and the study of martial arts passed down the centuries.

Still, a number of similarities can be found, as possible proof of a shared origin. Firstly, Scartails master the art of guardianship. Their gaze pierce shadows and illusions; assassins and those who try to stay unseen find their tasks rise to great difficulty by the presence of these unflinching guards. Secondly, all Scartails are expert of tricks of all kinds. Firecrackers, poison, hidden weapons, it doesn't matter how dishonorable the method may seem, they use it and perfect it, making it as deadly as a sharp blade. Scartails share the belief that honor finds only a limited place on the battlefield. They give themselves to martial pursuit to save the Under-Kingdom from its many enemies and see the act of limit one's chances by following too strict of a code as heresy.

Not for them the art of comand, a Scartail will fight with whatever weapon they have, be it bombs, knives, swords, halberds or the arcane machinery of the Leagues; they will fight, killing silently into the shadows, protecting commanders by assassins or taking to the field to single-handedly smash through enemy formations, acting as the sword that pierce or the shield that protect. Given body and soul to the pursuit of might, they make for fearsome opponents indeed.

_The blades sang a last time, then the two opponents were away from each other._

_Old Scartail Gnawtooth stalked back and forth, his long blade leaving a trail on the ground as he stared with strictness at his foe._

_The massive stormvermin and his flunkies had laught at seeing him and his patchy old fur, with no armor but a long-sleeved vest, but now, with two of the original five down, they didn't laugh anymore._

_"Kill-kill old rat!" Screeched the fangleader, hitting one of the remaining skavenslaves. The wretched skaven charged forward, squeaking in fear and desperation. Their numbers had been greatly whittled down but there were still a great deal of them._

_Gnawtooth frowned, assessing internal and external damage. It was negligible._

_The first blow, a clumsy swipe from a club, he dodged with a small movement aside, the moved air rustling his whiskers. A quick hit at the back of the head sent the skavenslave crumpling to the ground, then the others were upon him._

_Gnawtooth danced among them, handing out punches, swipes and backhands, each taking out a Skavenslave._

_Pain, old friend, blossomed into his side. Gnawtooth watched with a frown the blade emerging from his flesh. Turning, he saw the fangleader's toothy grin. He had used the moment Gnawtooth was distracted with the skavenslaves to stab him in the back._

_Gnawtooth inspired, focusing, clenching his muscles. The grin disappeared from the fangleader's face when he found he couldn't move his weapon. He cursed, just a moment before Gnawtooth whirled around, kicking him in the head. The old scartail felt bones break, but still brought his sword around, cutting the fangleader from shoulder to waist._

_The corpse fell, and Gnawtooth faced the remaining stormvermin, blade still sticking out from his flesh._

_Whatever bravey they had broke in that moment, and they turned and fled._

_Gnawtooth relaxed his posture, but his hand moved under the ample sleeve of his vest, procuring a small vial from a secret pocket._

_Behind him, a form appeared from the shadows, launching itself at him. Gnawtooth whirled around, his arm extending. The vial hit the Skaven Assassin right in the snout. The black-clad ratman screeched in surprise and pain, paws leaving daggers to run to his face. He never had the chance. Gnawtooth hit him with a chop, right between neck and shoulder. With a sickening crunch and a choked cry, the Assassin fell to the ground and didn't move anymore._

_Gnawtooth stood there for a moment, taking in the now silent battlefield._

_Some of the Skavenslaves he had downed were getting back up, shaking heads and touching sore spots. He watched them, and they flinched in fear. Glances were exchanged, and the Skavenslaves bowed to him, debasing themselves into the dust._

_Gnawtooth shook his head once, then turned and disappeared into the shadows._

_**Strong Stronger. Strong Stronger. Strong Stronger.**_

_**Scartail the First**_


	5. Deepkin Army List: Core Units

_**Core Units**_

**Kinrats:** Kinrats form the bulk of the Under-Kingdom's armies. Numerous, strong and hardy, they hold the line against the enemies of the Under-Kingdom. They are disciplined and move as one, following the complex tactics woven by their commanders. Where one could fall, many stand strong!

On the battlefield, it it they that most often hold the position of anvil in the plans of the leadership, holding the enemy in place so that tampering blows can be brought by other formations. Formed into heavily armored blocks, they engage the enemy in grinding conflicts, changing formation and attitude with a smoothness born by costant training.

They are usually armed with spears, shields and sword, but can be found even armed with bows, slings or crossbows, unleashing a withering salvo of rocks and arrows before engaging the enemy in melee.

Their leadership is made up by their best, valorous champions and commanders that lead their brethren from the front. Priests and priestesses from the Church of the Radiant administer to their spiritual needs while a thourougly organized logistical system take care of the material ones.

With thought of family in their minds and the faith of the Goddess in their hearts, these uncorrupted ratmen stand strong, a tough nut to crack for any that would dare to try and despoil their lands.

_The air was hot and heavy on the battlefield, tensed, just as bowstring._

_"Loose!" The Spearchief barked, and a hundred arrows were let fly by the massed Kinrats._

_The charging Beastmen, a snarling mass of stinking fur and gnashing teeth, were hit in full. Many Ungors fell, but the charge didn't stop, the bigger Beastmen keeping on coming even with arrows sticking out of chests and limbs._

_"Shields!" The Spearchief commanded. A ripple of movements coursed along the formation of Kinrats as bows were slung and shields were unslung. With a resounding clang, the shields were locked together, and a wall of steel appeared. Emblems of Lodges and far-away gomes glistened under the sun. _

_"Spears!" The Spearchief called. Spears were lowered, trasforming the shieldwall into a deadly hedgehog. _

_"You will not break!" The Spearchief declared, his voice raising high into the sky._

_"You will not run!" Behind helmets's slits, faces set into concentrated frowns. Teeth were gritted, feet planted into the dirt. Howling and braying, the Beastmen came. _

_"You will kill!" Light glinted over the tips of the spears, a thousand glimmers to make a glorious star._

_"They will die!"_

_The Beastmen impacted against the shieldwall with a defeaning clang. Axes smashed against spears, clubs hammered at shields, swords clashed against armors. The shieldwall wavered, the lights danced with wild despair._

_Then, with a roar, Spearchief Turgor cut down the Bestigor bearing down on him._

_"Kill them all!" He howled, blocking a overhead blow and stabbing his assailant in the guts. A great chittering answered him as the Kinrats went to the business of killing. Their lights shone strong, their shieldwall stood unbroken. They fought well that day. _

**Stormrats:** Taken from the ranks of the Kinrats, the strongest, biggest and most agressive of ratmen are gathered into formation of Stormrats. Covered from head to toe in heavy armor, wielding massive maces, axes and hammers, they charge at the enemy with roars of anger, chopping them down in a flurry of blows.

On the battlefield, is it they that launch counterattacks once the enemy's momentum has been absorbed by the Kinrat and it's always they that rush to inflict the deathblow to wavering formations.

They are usually kept in reserve, a weapon to be unleashed with accuracy by the keen-eyes general, but there's no shortage of episodes of Stormrats clashing head-on with Black Orcs, Bestigors and the heaviest armored units that the enemy could deploy, their battles like the din of thunder.

Wherever the battle happens, Stormrats plunge fearlessly in the heart of enemy formations, their armors absorbing massive punishments without buckling while they chop down anything on their path, securing victory for the commander that has unleashed them.

_Stormrat Chief Azkafar watched the on-going battle with tense attention. The massed Kinrats had done well, absorbing the Beastman's charge and the giving it right back. The clash had been going on for a while, back and forth as the contenders struggled to break each other, but the Beastmen showed no sign of breaking yet. It was time to change that. The only thing Azkafar was waiting for was… There!_

_He could saw it, clear as a crack into a stonewall. A weakspot in the Beastman's formation. In their rush to get to battle, they had thinned their flank._

_"Now is the time!" Azkafar said, and a rush of adrenalin ran across the Stormrats crowded beside and behind him. With a fluid motion, angry bloodlust flaring in his chest, he jumped the trench's wall and charged forward, waving his great hammer. "The King! The King!" He called, and his battle roar was picked up by all the soldiers running with him. "Charge!"_

_The Stormrats streamed out of the trenches they had hidden themselves, a torrent of heavy armors and massive weapons rushing against the flank of the Beastman formation._

_Deafened by the din of combat and by their own bloodlust, the Beastmen didn't see them coming and when they did, it was too late._

_The Stormrats smashed into them like a thunderbolt. They swung their heavy weapon to deadly effect, smashing bones, cutting limbs, punching through armor like it was paper. Under the surprise attack, the enemy formation collapsed. The Beastmen lost all their bloodlust and attempted to get away, running into every direction, stomping each other in their desperate hurry to escape. Only the strongest stood their ground, Bestigors covered in metal and wielding massive axes._

_There was a confused clash, great weapons smashing against each other with a din that seemed like a storm had come down to earth. When the dust settled, only the Stormrats remained, amidst them the ruined remains of the Beastman chief and his bodyguard, bludgeoned into bloody paste and scraps. _

**Gunrats:** Deepkin weapon industry is always working. Great factories, powered by the fires of the earth, costantly churns out weapons for the Under-Kingdom's war effort. The Leagues of th Mage-Engineers hold control over all of this, and the central government hold direct control over the Leagues, so it's no sorprise that the lion's share of the production goes to the regular army, with only a minimal part finding purchase by the private pubblic.

It's usually rifles and guns of all sizes and types to be produced and the soldiers equipped with them are gathered under the all-catch term of Gunrats. Gunrats form into disciplinated lines on the battlefield, gunning down the enemies of the Under-Kingdom with volleys of leads and iron. As all the ratmen soldiers of the Under-Kingdom, they are well-equpped, but forgoe the heavier armors of their front-line brethren in favor of higher mobility and speed. The typical Gunrat's equipment will be made of light armor, iron gauntlets and a thick helmet for protection, with a shortsword as a back-up weapon and a small shield.

Gunrats armed with ratmuskets are the most common. The Ratmusket is a single-shot weapon that require a laborious reloading, but it's cheap, easy to manifacture and to maintain, and tough enough to be used as an effective club into a pinch. Gunrats armed with ratmuskets forms into consecutive lines that shoots one after the other, allowing to mantain a good rate of fire. Their withering salvos are devastating and many enemies of the Under-Empires have learned to fear them.

Another variants are the Gunrats proper, to say, gunrats armed with guns. These are much rarer than their rifle counterparts, usually originating from smaller communities that for some reason haven't still made the passage to the Ratmuskets. The term Gunrat itself, in fact, calls back to the times when Deepkin made war mainly by ambushes and in loose formations. In the tight tunnels chosen for this kind of combat, the less encumbering gun was much more effective than its longer cousin, making it a mainstay and giving the entire category its name.

A third and fourth variant is composed of Gunrats armed with Hailshots and Thumpers. The Hailshot Guns are bulky, trombone-like weapons that shoots hails of bullets at close range, from which their name. Gunrats armed with these fearsome weapons are said Greeters, and form a bit of a mix between Gunrat and Kinrat. Heavily armed and armored in full plate armor, they stand in small groups at the fore of their armies, waiting for the enemy to come close enough before unleashing devastating flurries of bullets that shred through packed mass of infantry and break charges. They are especially effective against the frenzied charges of the Beastmen, and the havoc that they can cause can be impressive indeed. The meaning of their name is less of a joke and more of a fact.

The Thumpers are even rarer, with the gunrats armed with these strange weapons forming into specialised squads. The Thumper, or Ratzooka, is composed by a long tube, covered with clanking mechanisms and levers and provided with a handle, bulky enough that has to be shouldered to be aimed. Loaded the weapon with a projectile, ranging from armor-piercing single rounds to explosive shoots that send shrapnel flying around, a switch is activated by the Gunrat Thumper, or Ratkeeter, and the projectile is sent flying against its target by a small explosion inside the barrel that vent from the posterior of the tube. The effect vary, but they are inevitably explosive.

Ratkeeter usually operate in two-ratmen team, formed by a loader and a gunner, both with degrees of experience in the mechanical lore of the League. The Ratzooka, in fact, is a complex device and requires costant maintenance to work. Also, the extra muscle is needed since weapon and ammunitions don't make for a feather light load.

Ratkeeter teams are highly praised for their versatility and effectiveness, and many commanders desire to have at least a team in their ranks. Still, they are usually seen with a mixed feelings by the troops. Tales are still told of Ratkeeters flauting their higher status by having others carry their loads or of far-away explosions making the earth tremble followed by a Ratkeeter arriving squeaking and jumping into the soup cauldron to douse the flames on his derriere. The day-long chase of Ratkeeters Skrik and Crich by an enraged Matriarch Ironfur, after the two had inadvertently blown the latter's kitchen sky-high , and sent an inspecting Minister Crofuch and all his retinue head-first into her prize-winning giant cheesecake, is still recounted today around campfires, with a rich collection of songs on the argument.

_Master Moulder Kuriuk watched with gleeful satisfaction as the Deviants scurried away before his mighty Rat Ogres. Before his creations, pretty armors and fancy formations meant nothing. Why, they really looked like proper scurrying rats now. _

_"You-you see now-now, oh Greatest of Seers." He said to the Skaven at his side. "We must not-not fear these deviant-wrong kind. Moulder's might-strenght will destroy them."_

_The Grey Seer sneered a bit at the precisation of whose might that victory was coming from, but otherwise said nothing, keeping on nervously stroking his whiskers._

_Kuriuk was more than pleased by that silence, a confirm of his words. He was about to add something more, when a sudden boom made him jump with a squeak._

_Turning, he saw with dismay that one of his precious Rat Ogres had been blasted to bits, what remained of it now strewn along a big portion of cavern floor. Ahead, at the tunnel entrance where the deviants were escaping ealier, was now deployed a thin line of ratmen, each aiming a long rifle-like weapon._

_A order was shouted, and the line was coursed by a series of flashes, and then covered by smoke. The advancing Rat Ogres danced and rattled, like they were being pelted by a hail of stone. Many fell, their massive bodies riddled with holes. Some kept going, mindless violence pushing them forward even while their lifeblood stilled away. A couple of rockets flew through the air, obliterating these last defiants into explosions of gore and fire._

_Kuriuk remained to watch, slack-jawed, mind reeling from the loss of his works. He didn't notice the Grey Seer slink away, leaving him as the sole commander of the area. _

**Support Teams:** From the moment of its birth, the Under-Kingdom has been preparing itself for a great war against the corrupted Kin, a war for the soul of all Skavenkind. Great amounts of knowledge have been ammassed through the centuries, especially regarding how the masses of the Under-Empire go to war, and much effort has been put into the research of effective countermeasures. One of the results of this long effort are the so-called Support Teams. Groups of specialists passed through special training, they are attached to infantry contingents, bringing their own specialised skills to help the Deepkin footsoldiers overcome situations where gooc steel and stouat heart aren't enough.

There are many types of Support Teams: a Shieldbearer Team is formed by a big number of engineers whose main job is to carry massive foldable shields that can be set up as rapid barricades. Attached to Techno-turbines and other chugging mechanisms of the Leagues, these energy-strenghtened shields form a strong defensive barrier, giving Deepkin infantry a safe place where to shelter in case of enemy heavy fire or even a small fortress to consolidate territory gains.

A Sentry Team is formed by soldiers adept in the use of crossbows or long-range muskets. These snipers keep a careful eye upon the battle, strictly sparing their ammunitions until the right time is nigh. Only when they notice particurarly dangerous foes, like the dreaded Globadiers of the Skaven or Night Goblin Fanatics, they let their volley loose, putting all their efforts into trying to bring down these dangerous subjects before they can unleash their own brand of harm.

A Flamethrower Team is formed by two Deepkin, one that aims the weapon and one that carries the fuel tank and cranks up the machine. Gouts of flaming mixtures are spewed out of the muzzle, not only to roast swarm of beasts and monsters, but also calibrated to burn away contagions and orkoid spores. Very appreciated by the soldiery, especially when fighting goblins. The roasted meat is tough but filling, and a welcome addiction to the usual slob.

Particurarly dreaded are the Warp-Killers. These Teams are formed by wise-rats, scholars, ritualists, priests and mage adepts. Loaded with scrolls, books, chalk, animals to sacrifice, sacred oils, incense, religious icons and other occult implements, they invoke the Winds and the favor of the Goddess to reduce the effects of magic, daemon influence, Warpstone and warpstone-derived weapons or objects. Their work is a bit temperamental, as everything that has to do with magic is, but Deepkin soldiers will take any advantage they can; and then seeing a Warp-flame sputter into just a malodorous gust of air is a result one is ready to bear much to see, even the off-key chants that keep you up at night, the snobbish attitude or the occasional melee with books as weapons born by divergent views of how you scribble a ritual circle.

Medic Teams are formed by a mix of healers, alchemists and League adepts. They take care of the health of the troops, making sure that outbreaks of pestilence don't explode amidst the Kinrat and that hygiene standards are mantained. On the battlefield, especially where poison or similar kind of weapons are deployed, a quick intervention can mean the difference between life and death. Medic Teams provide anti-poisons for the soldiers, as well as invigorating potions and all kind of concoctions and poultices that can make sure that lives are saved where otherwise they would be lost. In the most dangerous cases, they take a first-hand approach, stitching wounds, burning scars, putting bones back in their sockets, administering the last mercies and so on. In cases where weaponized gasses are expected to be used, these teams can be even issued with rebreather apparatus, that they will then distribute to the soldiers proper.

The soldiery consider them a bit annoying sometimes, being told ten times at day to wash your hands or groom your fur can become frustrating, but that they bring a priceless service is not questioned by anybody.

Sapper Teams bring heavy support to the formation of Kinrats. Formed by soldiers expert into the art of destruction, they are armed with heavy demolition charges, shoulder-carried mortars that unleash fragmentation and incendiary projectiles, heavy rifles and mechanical digging equipment. Considered with a sort of wary awe by the common soldiers, expecially after having seen one use a steel-tipped drill on a living being, they are sometimes called, with not much creativity, "burned whiskers". Heavy smell of gunpowder hangs around them, so much that to smoke a pipe inside ten paces of distance is not considered wise.

_Steal its strenght and make it yours _

_An utilitarian people, the Deepkin believe that as long something works well and without danger, it doesn't matter where it comes from. This mentality has pushed them, and still does, to keep innovation to the fore, their Leagues costantly working to refine the weaponry already in use and to invent new ones; as well as to not make much fuss when it comes to integrate technology or knowledge that comes from other people with their own, a trait well-incarnated by the Errant Lodges. Strenght comes in many forms, after all, and as such it can be stolen and taken, something that the Deepkin, taken into a fight for their own survival, have no qualm to do. _

_For example, the exotic martial arts of Clan Eshin, one of the powerhouses of the Under-Empire have been greedily studied by sholars down the centuries, with even Deepkin infiltrating in the ranks of the infamous clan. Or again, much study has been brought to the eating abilities of the Ogre and their Gut Magic, hoping to unlock its secrets. The examples continue on and on, with the government of the Under-Kingom funding many of these reasearches. This open attitude is such that a specific office had to be opened to keep track of the innovations brought from the outside world, and make sure that nothing of overtly dangerous is allowed access. _

**Underrunners:** In the old times, when secrecy was paramount to the survival of the Under-Kingdom, the Deepkin made war into loose formations, with skirmishers adept at dispatching intruders through ambush and to leave no trace of battle. With time, as the Under-Kingdom grew in might, this particular way of warfare was supported and sometimes partly supplanted by more complex methods, mostly politics and subterfuge, but it has never stopped being a primary method of organization. Even today, as the Under-Kingdom steps to the light of open war against the Under-Empire, great numbers of soldiers are taught the way of guerrilla-style warfare and quick combat. Grouped under the nomination of Underrunners, these ratmen stalk the realms underground in loose formations, striking from the shadows to where the enemy is weak, just to disappear before retaliation can be brought. Numerous and well-trained, they are equipped with light armor and a variety of implements - be it traps, bombs, psychological warfare or simple violence - to use to make sure that the enemy arrives weakened to the battlefield or doesn't arrive at all. They also cover the role of scouts, ranging ahead of the main army to make sure that no enemy lies in wait or find ideal battlefields where to deploy for engagements.

When the time of battle comes, Underunners act as light infantry, supporting the heavier Kinrats or filling roles where mobility is called instead of brute force. They are usually armed with shortswords, small shields and some forms of long-range weapons, be it javeling, slings or bows. Some units are provided instead with long pikes and primarily used to keep monsters at bay.

Some formations of Underrunners are mounted upon the runts of the Molers. Big as a small horse, the Moler runts are deceptivelly fast for their bulkiness, even if not as a horse, adding to it good endurance and the ability to climb and march almost everywhere. Runters, as they are called, act as light cavalry for the Under-Kingdom, with each combat unit usually formed by a Moler runt, a rider and another soldier, trained to grasp at the runt's coat and fight together with the rider.

Versatility made manifest, the Underrunners make for a powerful addition to the Under-Kingdom's forces.

_"I hate my life." Krikker helpfully informed, letting himself collapse into the dust. Seated all around, his team grumbled concurrence. They were all beaten, covered in dust and sweat and tired to the bone, with their equipment not faring much better. _

_"Do it later." The team leader replied, the only one on his feet, looking over a worn-out map. "Down at the hole they need reinforcements. The fatasses are pushing them hard."_

_A grumble passed across the squad, but none complained. It wasn't like one of them fancied being flogged by the chief. _

_Rations were taken out and the canteen with the brew passed around. It was good stuff, of the kind that put warmth in your bones. Down there in the caverns, it was that and the fur on your skin. _

_"How many hits?" Krikker began, munching on his food._

_Holding out his arm for the medic, Yrthur gave him a grin. "Three."_

_Krikker spluttered a laughter. "Ah, bullshit." He said, sputtering pieces of biscuit. "You need at least five hit to take down a fatass, everybody knows!" Yrthur shrugged, and flinched when a ministration touched something sore. "What about you, Lenk?"_

_Shady Lenk was busy carving a spearpoint from a rock, and didn't raise his eyes from the work. "One."_

_Krikker exchanged a humorous look with Lenk. "Suuure."_

_Lenk rose his eyes, throwing both a glint-like stare. "To cut the rope of the trap." _

_The glance Krikker and Lenk exchanged wasn't humorous this time. With a disgusted snort, Krikker threw a money to his friend, that caught it with a chuckle. _

_A thin instrument sounded into the clearing ahead. _

_"Well, that's the call. Back to work, boys and girls." The team leader cheerfully said, rolling his map and stuffing it back in the backpack._

_A grumbling passed across the squad. Rations and bandages and whetstones were put back in their pockets, and weapons were drawn. _

_A quick break and then back to business. Back to bloody war. _


	6. Deepkin Army List: Special Units part 1

**Red Bands:** Deepkin military is powerful and well-organized, but its generals never stop keeping an eye open for promising recruits. War schools are present in any major Burrow and each Shieldchief is instructed to bring forth recomendations for his most brilliant soldiers. This scrutiny is made under demanding parameters, but those that pass the mark are picked up, given additional training and then welcomed into the ranks of the Red Bands.

Crack formation, the Red Bands are formed by those that showed exceptional martial prowess. Old veterans, battlefield champions, prodigies of military schools, they are all singled out, given armors and weapons blessed and enscribed with runes of powers and then grouped into hard-rock units of elites. They receive better pay and better treatments than regular soldiers, but in exchange their training regime and the expected level of discipline and combat performance are much higher. To mark their new status, a single, red band is painted along their tails.

In battle, the Red Bands are used to steady wavering battlelines, hold back the fiercest aggressions, and face enemies that would send anyone else running for their lives. Where the crucible of danger is, the Red Bands will be called to. This has made them into somewhat romantic figures and a great deal of Deepking bards have composed songs about brave Red Bands facing terrible monsters without a flinch. It's a testament to the dangers they are called to fight that relatively few of these songs tend to aggrandize reality.

Even amongst a warrior people, the Red Bands are great warriors and defenders all, expert both in massed combat and single challenge, and their hard-won renown made so that the their mark has assurged between the Deepkin to emblem of courage and strenght in the face of even the most terrible of dangers.

_Skavenslave Rakritt halted his escape and turned back. _

_From where he was, up above the cliff, he could see the entirety of the battlefield. _

_On a side, daemons came, capering and howling and gurgling and hissing, a tidal wave of flesh and metal that was all but unstoppable. _

_On the other… skaven? He wasn't sure. Maybe it was the terror roiling through him. _

_These skaven formed a single, ordinated block, pitifully small compared to the horde bearing down on them. Still, they held to silence, not one of them moving. Their spears were lowered, waiting for the charge. The runes inscribed on their armors seemed to glitter and weave into the gloom, like there was an inner fire glowing from within. _

_Watching them, Rakritt felt something stir into his verminous heart. He didn't know what it was, but it terrified and excited him at the same time. _

_The Skavenslave blinked. One of the armored figures in the first rank, he was raising his weapon into his direction. The spearpoint caught the little light streaming into the cavern from above, becoming like a flame, like the skaven soldier was holding a torch aloft. For a moment, Rakritt felt sorrow and longing, like a memory of better times long lost. _

_He turned, and ran, escaping from those feelings just as he escaped from the battle. He didn't see the two enemies meet, but deep in his mind that small flame flickered still, holding a humble promise that he could not name, passed unbroken through time, flame and blood. _

**Path Warriors:** The Church of the Radiant Goddess is a major power of the Under-Kingdom, omnipresent at all levels of Deepkin society. But, while temples and cathedrals attend to the masses, other, smaller religious comunities dot the Under-Kingdom.

Called Abbeys, these are fortified complexes, usually built into fairly isolated and sometimes even dangerous places, that live off charity and autonomous means. Their inhabitants are those Deepkin that felt the need to dedicate their own lives to religious pursuit and the service of the Goddess. These monks do works of common utility, like maintaining a road or assisting the sick, but it's not their main motive. They search for a deeper connection with their Goddess, believing that they can reach it through following Her dictates of brotherood, praying, working and, most of all, training their minds and bodies.

Abbey Monks take chastity oaths, forsake the pursuit of pleasure and focus all their efforts into the search for physical and mental perfection, believing that the closer they get to it, the closer their connection to the Mother will be. The philosofical foundation and the means are furnished to them by The Right-Handed Path, a millennia old doctrine that meld together study, prayer and training. Following it, the Monks learn to trasform their bodies into deadly weapons. They can toughen their skin until it become as strong as tempered steel, they can shatter stone with a single blow of their bare hands, they can run faster than a gallopping horses and jump many times their height, they can move with dizzying speed. More, they unlock hidden potential of the mind, becoming able to do feats that border into the superhuman (or super-rathood), like being able to hold their breaths for dozens of minutes at the time, or slow down the heartbeat until it's almost stopped, falling into a deathlike trance where virtually no food is required.

The marvels offered by the Right-Handed Path are manifold, but they don't come cheap. Only through complete dedication and sincerity of soul and mind these abilities can be unlocked and better mind and body can be obtained. As such, only the monks that started to train from ratlings can hope to become true Path Warriors.

Still, when the call of war sounds, the gates of the Abbeys swing open, and units of Path Warriors march out, clad only in the humble clothing of humble life. Led by their masters, these formidable warriors go to add their occult might to the armies of the Under-Kingdom, their pursuit of perfection leading them into defence of Her children like it has led them during the time of peace.

On the battlefield, the Path Warriors act as heavy-hitting, high-speed units, moving across the field with incredible quickness to bring tremendous charges against the enemy. Shields splinter under their blows, while blades rebound upon rock-like skin. As they fight, they train and so, punch after punch, they strive ever closer to their coveted goal.

_Trust me, it's what i thought too. Ratmen, cowards, easy prey to offer to the Gods. And for a time, it went like that. We butchered a lot of them rats, made the blood flow nicely for the Hound._

_But then these different ones showed up. No, it wasn't like they were bigger or anything, they were just more ratmen, with rags and all, but these ones didn't run. They came at us, howling and jumping. _

_We laughed then. What ratmen could do after all? These ones didn't even have weapons. We formed the shiedlwall, thinking that another easy offering was on its way._

_That was when things started to go wrong. Them rats, see, they jumped like damn frogs and, gods, they were fast! They vaulted over our shields and, before we managed to realize what was happening, they were amongst us, kicking and punching. Sure, you say, what a rat's punch can do? Well, i don't know what those rats ate, but they had hammers instead of fists. Hrergar, he was right beside me, he raised his shield to block one of them. The rat just cleaved through wood and iron with his leg and smashed him down, just like a boulder thrown by a catapult. Gods be blessed, i heard my kinmate's bones break there. And you can stay sure that Hrergar didn't get up anymore after that. _

_What did we do? What could we do? They were all amongst us, fast as lightning and slippery as damn crows. We tried to hit them, even managed to get a couple of good blows in. But them rats, and may the Gods strike me down if i lie, they felt like they were made of rock. Our axes barely managed to scratch them. And meanwhile they went to business all over us, breaking armor and bones like they weren't even there. _

_We held on for a while, but when the Huscarl went down, his head caved in by a fist, well, there we decided that we had had enough. You get only one life to dedicate to the Powers, have to keep it tight to yourself, right? For myself, it didn't go too bad. Ask Torvar over there, he still can't bear to see rats. But, to be fair, that has more to do with the other rats, the really big ones. Yeah, i am going to need a refill if you want to hear about them too. _

**Underdwellers:** There are those Deepkin whose knowledge of the dreaded underworld is beyond compare even amongst their subterrean kind. Survivalists, hunters of monsters, guides, pioneers, trackers, they brave the dangers of the darkness to map secret paths or bring back to their Burrows rare and powerful materials, be it the liquid light that spill from secret sources in the abyss or the hearts of dreaded beasts of the deep. When war comes, they are recruited into elites units of Underdwellers, the best guerrilla fighters of the Under-Kingdom.

Underdwellers stalk the darkness, moving unseen and unheard across shadows and crags. Snipers, elite skirmishers, monster slayers, they can stand motionless for days, a long-range musket in their paws. When the moment comes, a single shot rings and monsters and commanders drop dead, specialized ammunitions lodged right in their vitals. Nor their patient handiwork ends with this. Landslides are triggered upon unsuspecting invaders, firing mechanisms of warmachines are found rigged, rations fouled, animals poisoned. When retaliance is brought, the Underdwellers have already disappeared, slinking away through hidden paths known only to them.

Masters of stealth, sabotage and assassination, the Underdwellers rivals the dreaded Assassins of Clan Eshin in their works. Their life-long trainings toughen them up until their skins are leathery and their senses sharp as blades. They can contort themselves into impossibly small cracks in the rock, managing to infiltrate even the most heavy defences and to escape the most dogged pursuit. It is said that the best amongst them can even pick up vibrations in the air through their whiskers, seeing enemies even when nose and eyes cannot.

On the battlefield, they act as elite skirmishers and assassins. Dressed into battered light armor, often augmented by the workings of the Mage-Engineers, they stalk the shadows, bringing blade, bullet, bomb, poison and claws to bear against the most fearsome monsters the enemy can deploy. Quickly they strike and quickly they are away, before any retaliation can be brought, leaving only dead in their wake.

_"Bring it down!" Shieldchief Tagguz frantically waved his spear, signalling for his soldiers to advance. _

_More Underrunners joined the group circling the Abyssal Troll. They poked at the monster with long pikes, but he seemed barely to register. _

_His club, a massive fungus-encrusted stalactite, swung, and a bunch of Deepkin were sent flying._

_Tagguz cursed, ducking to avoid a flying soldier. "Shoot that thing, dammit!" He shrieked._

_Gunrats and Underrunners unleashed a flurry of bullets and arrows. But it wasn't like they hadn't been trying. The Troll was riddled with holes already, but his flesh regenerated almost as quick as they could wound it. Even then it didn't go otherwise; arrows pinged off his stony hide while bullets were just pushed out from closing wounds. _

_Tagguz was out of ideas, and the expressions of his soldiers told him that he wasn't the only one. "K-keep shooting!" He shrieked. "Don't stop! Don't stop until it's in pieces!" ._

_Suddenly, a bunch of projectiles flew through the air. There was a series of small crashes, and the Troll watched with dumb puzzlement the oil now covering him._

_Something bright hit him and he went up in flames. _

_The troll staggered, tiny brain trying to catch up. He wobbled outside the circle of Underrunners, the ratmen quickly moving aside to let him pass. He had barely made ten steps away that the ground gave way under him, and he disappeared with a mildly surprised grunt. _

_Wide-eyed, Tagguz watched the hole. He heard steps behind him, and turned. A group of raggedy-looking Deepkin were stalking away, already disappearing amidst shadows and rocks. _

_"Yeah." The Shieldchief said, still bewildered. "That works too."_

_One of his Underrunners spat into the hole, just to emphasize. _

**Warmage Brotherhood:** Good tactics, strong leadership and unflinching discipline are paramount to a powerful army, but it never escaped the Deepkin that only too often only the might of magic can secure victory. Still, the use of the Winds have always been seen with suspect in the Under-Kingdom, its leaders considering it a temperamental and dangerous tool. For this reason, Deepkin magic tends to come not from the emanations of the Realm of Chaos, but from the divine might of their Goddess and the inherent strenght held into abyssal rock and fire. Deep underground, where flame flares with wrathful life and stone speaks with grinding voice, there is power to be found for those that search and the Deepkin have searched for much, much time. They have become apt to call magma and rock to crush and burn their enemies, and to push back the Winds and the taint of Chaos through the invocation of the natural world.

The Leagues and the Church form the twin column of Deepkin magic, and together they pool their strenght to form the Warmages Brotherhoodd. Groups made up with auspicious numbers, in equal parts Church acolytes and lower-level Mage-Engineers, these battle mages form into Choirs, matrixes of power where their join their strenght into a single one. Together, they unleash the rage of the earth against the enemies of the Under-Kingdom or call upon the Goddess to make her mercy shine upon her beleaguered children.

Moving across the battlefield upon clanking carriages provided by the Leagues or flying palanquins sustained by divine breath, the Brotherood (or Sisterhood) provides unvaluable magical support to the armies of the Under-Kingdom, acting as magic artillery, shield provider and bulwark against corruption and magical onslaughts.

_Yrshask _

_The Yrshask, or Principle of Prudence, is one of the core believes around which the Under-Kingdom has shaped itself. Roughly meaning "growing unseen to might", it represents the belief that only by remaining hidden by their Corrupted brethren the Deepkin can eventually make a reality of their long-held destiny. This is deeply felt at every level of Deepkin society, to the point that has become somewhat part of their national identity and, more importantly, shaped the course of their entire history. _

_From the birth of their nation and all along its expansion, the Deepkin has made their utmost to keep their existence a secret. The Under-Empire swells to monstrous proportion and there was no doubt that swift destruction would have been the only end for them, should they be uncovered before the time was right. Magic, sabotage, politics, nothing has been left aside to avoid such a fate. Even during its moments of major fragmentation, the governants of the Deepkin have always kept the need for secrecy at heart. When, where and how contact was to be made with the world outside was held under strict government control, the routes along which the Kingdom had to expand were decided and enforced under the most demanding authority. When the needs rose. even the most extreme solutions weren't discarded, be it the forced relocations of entire Burrows, the wholesale extermination of Skaven Clans or the destructions of entire underways. _

_And still, the veil of secrecy wouldn't have probably held on if not for two, vital elements. First of all, the inherent chaos of the Under-Empire. The gigantic nation is so large, disordered and decentralized that to keep an effective control over even only a part of it is ludicrous at best. The Lords of Decay themselves have no idea of how many clans actually exists nor where the Empire's borders are. For them, Skavendom is only an inexhaustible source of fodders for their armies, a chaotic mass of clans that rise and fall like an overgrown garden. As long as their armies swell, they don't care for names or faces, nor it would be possible for them to learn them all. _

_This has played vastly to the help of the Deepkin in their endeavour for secrecy. Countless times uncorrupted ratmen have met their counterparts, only to be brushed off as just another bunch of corrupted skaven. In the ocean that is Skavendom, the Deepkin are only another sea. This fact is so efficient, in fact, that the Deepkin lords didn't lose time in implementing in their own strategies for secrecy. Down the centuries, entire Burrows have been decked into the trappings of Clans loyal to the Council of Thirteen, with Kinlords masquerading as corrupted Warlords and going as far as to enter the backstabbing political scenes of the Under-Empire and give hospitality to Grey Seers. As such, the Under-Empire has become, once again, its own mortal enemy. _

_The second, even more fundamental, of reasons is the Goddess and her servants, the Shaskar. If the Horned Rat never noticed the existence of Skaven untouched by his will is only because the Mother has laid a veil upon his eyes and his daemonic servants. Through the centuries, this glamour has held true and not even a shred of doubt about his supremacy over his verminous children has ever passed through the Horned One's mind. While the Goddess acts upon the divine realm, her mortal servants channel her might into gigantic rites that erase the notion of the Deepkin from the minds of all of Skavendom. Before the Unification, the main task of the Shaskar was just this, to shield the children of the Goddess from the gaze of their lost Father. _

_And still, as succesful it has been, this endeavour is always a source of great distress for the priestesses. They avoid it as much as they can and, if pressed to talk about it, they keep their words on the argument at a minimum. It is like it provokes them a great deal of pain, but if it's so no Deepkin has managed to know why. The Mother take her children's pains upon her shoulders, protecting them at every turn, but none of her burdens she shares with them. Maybe, as she touches the mind of he that was her mate long ago, her sadness swells and, like a overflowing cup, some drops of it fall upon her chosen priestesses, tears of divine mourning. And yet, one can only guess about the mind of the true divine… _

**Warmoler cavalry:** It's a testament to the dangerousness of the deeper underworld that during all their centuries of existence, the Deepkin managed to find only relatively few beasts peaceful enough to be tamed. Amongst them, the Moler stands as the workhorse of the Under-Kingdom.

Large as a bear and heavy just as much, the Moler is a rodent-like, tightly furred creature similar to a mole, but provided of large, rotund eyes and somewhat longer limbs. It's not fast, but it's strong, tame and possesses incredibile endurance. Molers are used everywhere into Deepkin society as bearers of burden, to pull carriages, into the energy-producing wheels of the Leagues and, of course, war.

Its docile temperament made preparing Molers for war a somewhat dodgy proposition, but generations of selective breeding have allowed the Deepkin to breed a subspecies of bigger, stronger and more aggressive Molers, called, appropriately enough, Warmolers. The process is still in its prosecution, though, and many runts are born with every litter, used then to form the Runters.

Warmolers are clad into heavy armor, their strenght allowing them to hold easily both it and the weight of a fully armored ratman, and then grouped into formations of Warmoler cavarly.

On the battlefield, Warmolers act as heavy shock cavarly, their mass allowing them to build up such momentum that they can barrel through the toughest enemy formations. While his mount use teeth, claws and weight to deadly effect, the ratman atop is armed with a shield and a long, halberd-like weapon called Longlaive. Both a spear and a long-hefted cleaver, its used by the knight to skewer opponents on the charge and then to chop left and right as the Warmoler wade through the enemies.

Training to become a Warmoler rider is long and hard, but once done knight and mount act and fight as one, becoming a fierce opponent for any that would dare to challenge them. Warlords are known to mantain household guards of these mounted troops, using their own money to equip them and keep them trained and ready for battle.

_Of the Under-Kingdom_

_The central core of the Under-Kingdom is situated under the southern World's Edge Mountains, south of the Mortis Tarn; it confines to the west with the Land of the Dead and to the East with the barren lands of Cursed Lahmia. It's an isolated position, well away from any major power, made even more so by the fact that the Deepkin dwell to a higher profundity of their corrupted cousins - they owe their name to this attitude -._

_Secured by its isolated position, the fledgling Under-Kingdom has steadily expanded through the centuries with only relatively minor setbacks. The Deepkin have reached the Wolf Lands to the north, tunneled west until the Lands of the Assassins, travelled the Kingdom of Beasts to the East and extended to the south well beyond even the fabled Lost Hold of Karak Zorn and in the mysterious South of the World, this their privileged expansion route for its being out of the way of the major powers of the known world. _

_Still, the Deepkin owes owe much of their isolation to the level of depth they usually make their homes in, deep enough that the air is hotter than the levels above, and it's not uncommon to find places where the blood of the earth runs free. This deeper network intertwine with the one used by the Corrupted, but the Skaven above usually don't descend into it. Their culture brings them to look above, not below, and widespread legends of terrible monsters lurking in the dark keeps them from venturing deeper that they need to. These legends are both true and false. True, because, yes, in the depths of the earth there are things best left undiscovered, and false because life is possible, even there. _

_The network of tunnels used only by the Deepkin is as much as tangled as the one above, but the Deepkin primarily use only a fraction of it, confining their movements to just a limited number of tunnels considered safe. To stray in the depth is to go into danger and, to avoid it, many of these tunnels are painstakingly cleared and maintained, and many branching openings are sealed shut. Down the centuries, this has allowed the Deepkin to build a somewhat safe network of routes that keeps their Kingdom together and allow for trade to flourish. The greatest of these routes, usually the ones connecting the Great Burrows, are true arteries of life, travelled daily by thousands of Deepkin with every kind of merchandise. _

**Juggernaut:** The technological prowess and vast government support of the Leagues appears in scant more impressive ways than with the powerful Deepkin Juggernauts.

Invented by the genius Mage-Engineer Ratanius, a Juggernaut is a technomancy marvel, a great wheeled carriage covered with metal plates and provided with a single, hull-mounted cannon. A furnace burns at the center of the machine, its fire harvested by the deepest abyss, and provides motion to the massive wheels as well to the rotating turret of the cannon.

In the claustrophobic compartments inside, the crew scuttles tirelessly amidst pumping pistons and oil-leaking gears, maneuvering steam valves, reattaching cables and making sure that furnace pression stays stable. A commander, said Chief Juggernauter and invariably a Mage-Engineer, controls the situation outside through a periscope and squeaks orders about movement and mechanical matters. A driver holds the wheels, peering through little slits. A gunner man the cannon, reloading and firing as soon as the order comes. A three-skaven team push muskets and crossbows into slits, loosing bullets and bolts on the enemies around.

The rest of the crew, from three to five, is composed by assistants that take care that the machine keeps working at peak efficiency. As powerful as the Juggernaut is, it's still somewhat of a temperamental technology and continuous care must be levied upon its mechanisms, lest the fire furnace roars out with less than pleasant outcomes. This continuous hazard makes so that Juggernaut crews are considered a bit jumpy by their fellows Deepkin, something not helped by the sometimes smouldering fur or the shrieks at the smell of grease.

Still, the Juggernaut makes for a powerful addition on the battlefield. The warmachine can plough through enemy lines, squashing all in its paths under its great wheels while loosing volleys of cannonballs and shrapnels from its battle cannon. If one can go over the gouts of flames occasionally discharging through the vents and the panicked shrieks from inside, and one must do so for science, Juggernauts makes for truly powerful allies.

_"Well done, my friend! Well done!"_

_Mage-Engineer Tirrik smiled nervously at the beaming Warlord._

_"What courage in that charge!" The burly commander practically radiated joyous pride. "And that cannot shot! Pinpoint accuracy! Straight trough that ugly monster's heart! A glorious, glorious thing, i tell you, worthy of our forefathers! I will make sure that you and your crew receive a commendation for that, be sure of it! Now, another toast! To our heroes!"_

_The banquet erupted into roars and cheers, and Tirrik made his best to not sweat too much. Better if nobody found out that the only reason the "glorious charge" and the "pinpoint shot" happened was because his crew had panicked over an almost ruptured furnace. And, while everybody ran around screeching, he couldn't see where he was going because his driver and gunner were hugging his head, screaming that they were all going to die. _

_Tirrik took a nervous sip from his drink, nodding to himself. Yes, League business. And then, it was such a good evening. Better not to ruin it with technical details. _


	7. The battle of Dragon's Blood part 1

With the arriving of the Ur-kot, or Promised Time, the Under-Kingdom boldly stepped into the light, launching its gauntlet of challenge to the nightmarish Under-Empire. Under-King Lantheus, Chosen of the Mother Goddess, launched a proclamation that shook the mountains and the under world, bouncing across the entirety of Skavendom. He called the Horned Rat a liar and a tyrant and proclaimed the return of the merciful Goddess, Mother of the Skaven and the only worthy of their worship. These words hit all Skaven that heard them like a thundershock. None in the long history of Skavendom had ever even dared to suggest such a thing without an immediate and deadly ripercussion by the vengeful Skaven deity and never on such a scale. And still, words were the least of the changes that fell upon the under world.

Clans considered faithful suddenly raised banners proclaiming their loyalty to the Under-King, while entire fortress-burrows fell to intercine warfare as armies of defectors rose in revolt. Even worse, entire armies of Deepkin, or the Deviant Ones, as they came to be known by their corrupted counterparts, suddenly appeared in multiple points of the World's Edge Mountains. As one, they fell upon major holdings in highly organized assaults, often helped from the inside. Layers of traps and defence that had survived centuries of intercine war between clans were destroyed or bypassed with shocking speed, important warlords and chieftains that had ruled for decades were butchered in their scores alongside their retainers. The momentum of the attack had such an extension and intensity that almost half of the World's Edge Mountains, from the Land of the Dead up to the Black Water, fell to complete chaos almost overnight.

For months, the Council of Thirteen floundered in panic and confusion, uncapable to obtain a picture of the situation. They were swamped daily by confused reports arriving from a corner to the other of the mountains, each depicting chaos and the sudden appearance of unknown enemies, but clear information of what was actually happening could not be obtained. A copy of the declaration of Lantheus had been brought to the Council soon after the beginning of the chaos, dutifully carried by a shaved Warlord to whom the paper had been stuck to the whiskers, but nobody was ready to take it to face value. No information about a thing called Under-Kingdom existed in any archive, and the simple idea of a competitor to the Council for supreme authority amongst the Skaven or, even worse, another God rivaling the Horned One was simply too ludicrous to even consider it. It was easier to fall back upon the usual inter-clan scheming, and many accusations were flung, even while the Lords frantically tried to obtain resolutive informations.

Eventually, the findings were shared and somewhat of a complete picture of the situation was formed.

To say that it was shocking was the greatest of understatement.

The entire region of the Mountains between the Black Water and Doom Mountain, a gigantic stretch of land that rivaled in size with the Empire of the Man-things, had been lost. Dozen of Clans had been slaughtered or had switched side. Strongholds, burrows, nests, even the most hidden lairs of Eshin, they had all been overhelmed, every contact lost. Karak Azgal, previously contended with the night goblins, had been lost to an army of Deviants. Karak Eight Peaks, the City of Pillars, had been attacked and now Warlord Queek Headtaker was locked into a hard battle of attrition with the invaders. Even more disconcenting, Crookback Mountain, the central stronghold of Clan Rictus, didn't exist anymore. The Mountain that held control over the back end of Mad Dog Pass had been ripped apart by a titanic explosion that had taken the legions of Stormvermin stationed inside and reduced the once mighty peak to a smouldering wreck.

The situation improved, even if only slightly, getting farther from the mountains. The majority of the holdings in the Soutlands had fallen or capitulated, but many clans still held their grounds, especially those belonging to the Pestilent Brotherhood. The Deviants had emerged as far as Ekrund and Araby, pouncing with pinpoint accuracy, and where they hadn't obtained a swift victory, the fight was hard and vicious, with the skaven remained loyal hard-pressed.

The news couldn't have been more disastrous. Incalculable resources in slaves, soldiers, warpstone and breeders had been lost and the grip of the Council over large swathes of territory was, for all means, gone. Rictus, a Warlord Clan that could rival in might with the Great Clans, was essentially crippled. It was from the time of the Second Skaven Civil War that the Under-Empire hadn't suffered such losses.

And all of this was to be charged upon these Deviants appeared from the depths, an entire Kingdom that claimed independence from the Council. They were no wayward Clan, the reports insisted, but entire armies of well-equipped, well-trained skaven that moved in coordination and attacked with deadly effect. They had not to be understimated, and treated like a first-class enemy, of the cut of the dwarf-things or the men-things.

When the first shock passed, the declaration sent by the so-called Under-King was brought and read again to the presence of all Lords of Decay, this time with the utmost attention. The full weight of that piece of paper finally hit home. This was more than a rebellion, this was a challenge to all the Skaven had ever stood for, to the Under-Empire as a concept itself!

The irony of having a hidden enemy jump on them when they were the ones supposed to be the hidden enemy wasn't lost on the Lords, but none raised the point. Instead, many fearful gazes were sneaked on the Thirteen Seat, the one traditionally held by the Horned Rat himself. A shadowy figure was seated on it, its eyes smoldering with green fire. The message was quickly understood: none had changed, the Horned Rat was still surpreme and retribution would fall upon any who dared to oppose Him. His servants were expected to work against this insolence as it deserved.

The Lords of Decay needed only partially the encouragement. None of them was keen to lose their standing to unknown upstarts. It still curbed the most traitorous tendecies, though.

The first motion passed by the Council was, predictably enough, to expel Kratch Doomclaw from the Council. His Clan Rictus laid in ruins now and what remained didn't warrant him protection from his old rivals, especially Gnawdwell of Mors. The Warlord accepted the motion, was forced to, and stormed out of the Council hall like a fury. He would return.

The Great Clans threw their greedy gazes over the empty seat, but in this moment of crisis, the unifying presence of the Gray Seers was ascendant. The seat was assigned to a Seerlord, raising the influence of the rat-mages to an all new level. No Lord was happy about it, but to raise questions right now would mean to show themselves as enemy of much needed unity and so the motion passed without problems.

Next, came the question about how to react at this invasion, and about this topic the debate was fierce. Lord Gnawdwell of Mors pressed vehemently for a campaign to relieve the siege of the City of Pillars. Karak Eight Peaks was an all-important nexus for the power of his clan and he feared the loss of prestige should it be lost. The other major Lords - Skyre, Moulder, Eshin, Gray Seers and Pestilens - weren't as keen to the idea. Only Mors would benefit from the relieving of the ex-Karak, as their own core territories were distant from the warzones. They would have preferred to shift into a defensive stance, both hoping into a further weakening of Mors and to look into their own internal affairs. After all, who said that these traitors couldn't be hidden into other clans or, worse, their own?

Distrust was to an all time high, as well as ambitions and concerns. Motions were put forward just to be vetoed by opposing factions, and debates stretched themselves uselessly. The Council activities grinded to a discorcenting halt. Once again, the disunity of the Skaven proved to be their greatest adversary.

While politics in Skavenblight ran their course, the Under-Kingdom kept its momentum going forward.

Lantheus was grimly pleased. The first wave had completed almost all of its objectives. The resistance opposed to the invasion had remained inside expected levels and the various previsions had been generally met. All in all, the first phase of the offensive had been a marvelous success, demolishing Council dominance over an enormous swathe of land. Now, they had to press the advantage.

Engineer corps were unleashed all across the newly conquered territory. Fortifications were dismantled, entire fortresses broken down into scraps that were then carried away. These materials, and more brought from the lands of the Under-Kingdom, were used to reinforce determinated points, usually major strongholds of Clans and to build new ones. With breath-taking speed, the Deepkin dismantled the network of fortresses, lairs and burrows that had dotted the Mountains and went to replace it with their own.

It was nothing to be surprised of and Lantheus avoided being impressed by the efficency of his subjects. The Under-Kingdom had built its strenght only for this invasion, in fact, it could be argued that it existed only in function of it. The Kings and Lords of the Deepkin had planned this attack for centuries, down to the smallest detail. Perfection of execution was only to be expected.

Still, a deeply sore point existed.

As expected, a great mass of corrupted Skaven had been captured or had surrendered during the invasion.

Down the centuries, the Deepkin had endlessly argued about what should be done with their corrupted kin. Half-victims, half-monsters, what to do with them? Various solutions had emerged, none of them simple. But war didn't allow for complications, a lesson that Lantheus and his predecessors had learned with heavy heart. And, with heavy heart, the orders were given and carried out.

The majority of the captured Skaven would be herded deeper underground, where they would be dispatched, as quickly and painlessly as possible. The rest, menials all, would be used as workers and given rations and medical attentions. It was all the Under-King could do for them. The Under-Kingdom simply didn't have the resources to deal with such a large number of mouths to feed, let alone with so many potential traitors.

It was a necessity. A painful, terrible necessity that Lantheus locked into his heart and held, together with all his responsabilities, forever.

The Deepkin warmachine trudged on.

While workers built or fortified fortresses, engineers modified the network of tunnels. Many were just destroyed while others were enlarged, that task alone made herculean by the sheer immensity of the Skaven tunnels. Still, the Deepkin went to it, working as fast and as extensively as possible, making ample use of the enormous wealth of information they had accumulated during the centuries.

Supply lines were stabilished, while food sources were immediately seized. The warp-tainted mushrooms used to feed the Under-Empire were fed to the flames, and farmers come from the Under-Kingdom spread the seeds and spores of new coltivations, as well as bringing cattles with them.

While the new infrastructure system took shape, Lantheus charged his generals with completing the subjugation of the Southern Lands. As the corrupted Skaven were taken away, further reinforcements were directed to the zones where war still ran strong.

While the suddeness, organization and strenght of the invasion had made for a quick conquest, and the great majority of the seized territory was on its way to be pacified, there remained three main points of contention: the South-east, where the Clans of the Pestilent Brotherood still resisted, the City of Pillars and the Mines of Ekrund. Some skirmish flared there and then but none was of size big enough to warrant concern.

Of those three points, the Pestilent Brotherhood was the most pressing concern. With its relocation to Lustria, Pestilens had brought the majority of its strenght away from the Southlands, but the Clans that had remained, the Plaguelords counted on returning, were still strong. Their rabid zealotry had made difficult infiltrating them, since only by sincerity of faith one could survive the tremendous maladies they infected themselves with. For this reason, they had been pushed back and humbled, but not completely destroyed, and the battle was still fierce.

These clans made for a dangerous enemy lurking to the flanks and had to be dealt with. Lantheus wanted no distraction from the south for when the counter-attack of the Under-Empire came. For this task, he appointed Depthlord Truzor, and gave him a strong army taken by the second wave. He was to annihilate the Pestilent Brotherhood, torch their holdings and then build a strong defence toward the sea. Should Pestilens arrive from Lustria, they could not be allowed to gain a foothold in the area once again.

The Depthlord dutifully obeyed. He took his new army and, travelling by the Deeproad, the steam-powered trasport developed by the Leagues, he reached the Land of the Assassins, far west and facing the sea. This was a land of forests and savannas, self-contained between low mountains and the massive delta of the Tarouz River. A civilization of humans had flourished here, but its time had long passed and now only a few cities remained on the coast, living off the bounty of the sea and tha trade with the fleets of far-away Ulthuan.

Here, in this sheltered land, the Deepkin didn't have to fear to be discovered. They had built Burrows under the mountains and inside the forests, forming their own off-shoot of the Under-Kingdom. The Under-Kings, foreseeing its value as a base for the Ur-Kot, had made settlers and funding flow into it. By continued effort, the few Beastmen infesting the forests were hunted down and exterminated, while the Under-Empire was kept away or appeased in turn. Now, this was a pure Deepkin province, with no claim of the Corrupted Kin upon it. Unburdened by internal problems, the Deepkin living here had sent contingents to other areas, focusing the best of their efforts against the Pestilent Brotherhood to the south and north. They were the pillar of the war that was being waged against those pestilential armies, and their armies were well-adept to fight pestilence and crazed faith.

To this land Truzor arrived and, strong of his royal mandate, immediately took overall command. That didn't sit overly well with the lords of that land, but the best of the grumbling was appeased by the quick distribution of autonomous field commands by the Depthlord.

Protests quelled, Truzor set to work, starting with making the point of the situation.

With the Ur-Kot, many clans of hidden Deepkin of the Southlands had risen in revolt, alongside the armies that had surged from the deeps. Many of the clans affiliated with Pestilens had been overran, but many more had hold out the first assault. In fact, the Deepkin infiltration had managed to reach deep only in those hall clans that hadn't embraced in full the rot. That had left plenty of Plague Monks and now all the parts of the Southlands where the Skaven had put roots, from the Land of Dervishes to Araby were a chaotic map of battles, pacified zones and zones still to pacify.

It was a hornet's nest to say the least, and that Truzor was put in charge of it demonstrated the faith that the Under-King put in him. The chest swelling with honour, the Depthlord set to single out the points of major resistance and where to send his fresh forces. A second trust had to be brought, hopefully bringing a quick end to the war, so that the full strenght of the Under-Kingdom could be focused against north, against Skavenblight, when the unevitable counter-attack came.

Truzor was deep in this work, when a sudden new was brought to him.

To the north of the Lands of Assassins, where the Tarouz flowed into the large Bay of Corsairs, a High Elves fleet had been sighted.

This was concerning. Truzor had enough problems dealing with Pestilens. The last thing he needed now was a new adversary, let alone one as mighty as the Ulthuani. Of course, it wasn't surprising. Ulthuan was a trade empire first and foremost and entertained a profitable relationship with human cities of the coast, to which, at least in theory, provided military support in exchange of advantageous prices for their wares. The Ur-Kot had been nothing but unsubtle and it wasn't nothing to be surprised if the High Elves had decided to keep an eye over their commercial partners for the time being.

And still, this was not the moment to take risks.

The Depthlord summoned a powerful leader of the region, Warlord Zholk, and gave him an army and orders: keep an eye over the High Elves and ascertain their intentions. If they were not hostile, stay clear from them as much as possible, if they tried something that could put Deepkin plans in jeopardy, search for a contact and have them see that the Under-Kingdom had no business with them. If they didn't listen, use any mean necessary to stop them from interfering.

Truzor wasn't happy to see an entire army go, not when he saw a hundred ways to have it better used, but he simply couldn't take the risk. The High Elves had commanders that were ready to take any change in the status quo to try and bring some blow to their perceived enemies and recover their lost power. If he had to focus over the various campaigns across the Southlands, he needed the Land of Assassins out of danger. And if to secure that, he needed to send an army, then so be it. It was better than have Burrows assailed by deadly elves in search of revenge and precious supply lines disrupted.

Acting on the Depthlord's orders, Zholk marched north. He was determinated on making sure than no pointy-eared men-thing interfered with the long-waited moment of rebellion.

_Warlord Zholk_

_Born and bred to lead, Zholk hadn't been overtly enthusiastic at being given a command post into the Lands of Assassins, and even less at being assigned to the second wave of the Ur-Kot. He would have much preferred to lead an assault on a stronghold of the Corrupted, with his premiere choice being the fabled Karak Eight Peaks. For these reasons, the instructions to wait while the first wave went in has been wearing his patience thin and he has welcomed Truzor's order with fierce relief. _

_Zholk is an experienced commander, having refined his talents through dozen of battles against the Beastmen of the South and decades of military studies. Aggressive and capable, he's well known amongst the Deepkin for his stubborn streak and wrath-like ways, preferring to take an active role in warfare rather than sit and wait. Especially renowed are his piercing offensives that, backed by an iron will, have shattered shieldwalls and enemy defences in their scores. _

_Physically speaking, Zholk is a towering Deepkin, renowed even amongst the Oathsworns for his massive size and martial might. He's loud, fierce and fanatically loyal to the Under-King, so much that he has tried to copy some of Lantheus's habits, like the legendary scalding baths that the Under-King is said to take to relax. His rambuctious and amicable ways have made him loved by his subordinates, and he has the skill of a rabble rouser, being able to rouse his soldiers' spirits to great heights, another reason of the might of his shattering attacks. _

_Rather than for his attitude, Truzor has chosen him for his stubborness. To estabilish non-hostile relationships with the High Elves would be good, but what it matters now is that the Ur-Kot proceeds as planned. The Depthlord has no faith in the Ulthuani's width of views and prefers a commander that will bring them to battle rather than back down and risk having them disrupt the Land of Assassins. Diplomacy will run its course, but another time. Still, he has not lacked to send the Shaskar Zzkrit as an advisor to his rambuctious Warlord, just in case the need to curb Zholk's more war-like tendencies present itself. _

_On his part, Zholk is more than ready to meet the expectations of his superior. He and his Warlords comrades have been given extensive training about the High Elves's methods of war, just for such a case, and he feels more than up to the challenge of fighting them. Sure, he will do his best to resolve the matter as bloodslessly as possible, if just for his soldiers's sakes, but if the pointy ears don't back off, they will feel the spears of the Deep Ones!_

Moving northward toward the Bay of Corsairs, Zhulk dispatched emissaries to the city of Abu Hamed. Barely a medium-sized settlement, it still was the largest of the Land of Assassins. Its rulers knew well the Skaven, with which entertained trade, that then continued with the High Elves. The humans had tried their best to keep the fact hidden from their sea-faring trade partners, but, considering the High Elves diplomatic prowess and spy network, it was considered highly unlikely that they didn't know where part of the merchandise they bought came from. Still, lumber, iron and such don't stink, no matter who handles them, and the elven merchants preferred to keep their eyes closed, if only for the big discounts they were given.

The messengers talked to the rulers of the city, asking that they act as intermediaries with the High Elves. The Skaven, they explained, were in the middle of a campaign and wanted to avoid bloodshed. They were Deepkin, sons and daughters of the Goddess, enemies of the Horned Rat, and were ready to pledge themselves as allies to the people of Ulthuan, in exchange for being left alone.

The rulers of Abu Hamed accepted in earnest. They knew the Deepkin as peaceful and helpful folk and the last thing they wanted was for their trading partners to start and tear to each other. Commerce was the lifeblood of their city, and the end of it would mean a disaster. They only asked for the oaths of neutrality that the Deepkin had already given them to be renewed, an act that was done immediately.

Both parts satisfied, messages were dispatched to the elven merchants already into the city, that, in turn, passed them to their compatriots on the ships. While waiting for an answer, Zholk moved his army closer to the city, but remained underground, only sending a contingent of scouts to take first-hand informations on the fleet.

This remained into the bay, with only a handful of ships having docked to Abu Hamed's harbor.

Hidden on the coast, Deepkin scouts watched as the graceful elven ships bobbed gently into the bay, a small forest of sleek forms and golden masts. It wasn't large enough for a true army, but was still enough for a strong contingent of soldiers, an exploratory force sent to take stock of the situation and maybe try to seize a chance. The flags that it hoisted were carefully jotted down: the colours of Cothique and Eataine were prevalent, with the odd one bearing the rampant dragon of Caledor. Remarkable, the people of the Dragon Kingdom weren't exactly known for their diplomacy, but still not a fount of strong concerns. There were only a few of them.

While they observed, a smaller ship came out from the port of the city and sailed gracefully into the waves. It stopped beside the greatest ship, a magnificent specimen of gold and silver bearing the colours of Eataine. That was a relief, the people of Lothern were the most accomodating of their kind.

After a while, the ship detached itself by its elder sister and returned to the harbor.

Messages were exchanged between humans and elves, and then the same messages were brought from the humans to the Skaven, with various reactions.

_"Bullcrap." _

_The Warlord's single word felt like someone had dropped a boulder into the room._

_Mage-Engineer Truax sneaked a glance to the rest of the war-council. Nobody looked ready to argue. Even the Shaskar remained silent, her eyes closed as she leaned against her staff._

_The Mage-Engineer cleared her throat. Well, it looked like it fell to her._

_"I feel that… might be somewhat of a rash judgment, Warlord." She failed to keep the point out of her tone. She wouldn't ever get used to the Warlord's preference for words like those, especially in the presence of the revered Shaskar. _

_Zholk threw her a narrow glance, but said nothing. Instead, he raised the richly-decorated parchment to his eyes and started to read._

_"We, Sea Helm Terillian, speaking for the Phoenix King, Chosen of Asuryan blablabla, in under standing of our long-time allies, the people of the city of Abu Hamed, blablabla, we don't put our trust into the Skaven, as they have proved themselves to be treacherous, but in accordance to King Finubar's wishes, we are ready to lease to said Skaven a lenght of trust, if they accept to not harm the human people of Abu Hamed and offer assurances that they won't harm the subjects of the Phoenix King that will disembark from His Glorious Majesty's fleet. Stamped, signed and all." The Warlord stopped reading, and crumpled the parchment in his fist. "This motherfucker."_

_Truax flinched a bit, but avoided reprimands. Not like they would change something. "But, Warlord… they show themselves to be understanding…"_

_"Puah!" Zholt threw the crumpled message to the floor. "Understanding my ass. This motherfurcker doesn't trust us one damn jolt. He has called for reinforcements and now he's just stalling for time. Also, did he ask for permission to disembark? No, he's just going to put down as many soldiers as he want from those damn ships."_

_The rough, coughing laughter of the Shaskar cut Truax's reply, attracting the general attention._

_"I told you that to wait would have been more prudent, young Oathsworn." The ancient priestess raised her heavy brows toward the sullen Warlord, a somewhat ironic expression on her features. "If we had stayed hidden, maybe there would have not been necessity for all of this."_

_Zholk hit the armrest of his throne with a fist, eyes blazing. "And i repeat you that you were wrong!" He exclaimed irritably. "If we stayed hidden, they would have disembarked and seen how weak we are in this zone right now! Must i remind you that this army is all what stand between them and half of the Burrows of this Land? If they disembarked without opposition, their scouts would have seen how easy it is to march to them! And then who knew where they could have hit? No, i want them to know that this Land is out of their reach, that the Deepkin's grip is so strong that they will get just a bunch of dead elves if they try to take it!" He rose from the throne and started to stalk back and forth, his heavy cape flowing behind him. _

_"And still…" Replied the Shaskar. "You tried to reach to them, knowing full well that they won't trust any word that comes from our mouth. And now you disregard their own words, knowing that Elves reply to Skaven's words only with lies."_

_"Of course!" The Warlord replied with anger. "Elves believing the assurances of Skaven? Never! Elves asking of Skaven to be peaceful? Pah! I only wanted for them to see that we are here, and that we see what they do! They may believe what they want of our words, but they will be forced to believe in our vigilance and our strenght! They must see that this is our land, and that we guard it!"_

_"It's more than this." The heavy brows of the Shaskar rose, her little eyes sparkling beneath. "You want them to see us. That they begin to understand that we stand apart by the Corrupted. That we aren't Them." _

_The Warlord stopped, all the tension of rage standing for a moment still, before being replaced by solemnity. "Yes, i want that." He murmured._

_A moment of silence fell. _

_The Shaskar's quiet voice broke it. "If you're right, they will return with an army." Her little eyes sparked with mischief. "What are your orders, Warlord?" _

_Zholk's massive body remained still for a moment, then he turned to his war council. Truax was surprised by the fierce authority that the Warlord seemed to emanate._

_Zholk smirked. "Get the engineers ready. We dig in." _

Soon after the first contact, the Deepkin army made its appearance. Masses of Kinrats emerged from underground, ranks upon ranks of heavily armored soldiers marching in disciplinated formations. Great contingents of Underunners and Gunrats followed, as well as strong groups of Support teams, Molers and Runters.

To the nervousness of the people of Abu Hamed, this army set camp not much far from the city, in a large savannah plain that ended with the forest to the west and the Bay of Corsairs to the north. Large contingents of engineers built wooden walls, reinforced by strange, mechanical contraptions, dug trenches and set up gun emplacements, while the soldiery raised tents and hovels, and the logistical corps set up their own buildings. In a short time, an entire new city had sprouted, with its own shops and means of supplying.

Warlord Zholk intentions of intimidating the Elves gave life to imposing preparations, with entire Brigades marching daily across the savannah in training exercises. Meanwhile, the Shaskar had a great place of worship set up and started to hold massive ceremonies honoring the Goddess, as well as processions and rituals of detestation, all in an attempt to show that the Deepkin didn't worship the Horned Rat.

None really believed that it would be enough to assuage an age of mutual distrust, but still they worked and marched and prayed. They had to begin somewhere.

If they were impressed, the Elves didn't show it. With the approvation from the Skaven, their ships docked into the port of Abu Hamed and disembarked a contingent of silvery-armored soldiers. A minority lodged into taverns or pitched tents into the city square, while the rest set camp farther north and close to the coast, where they enjoyed protection by their ships' artillery.

Zholk thought about keeping his own contingent to house into the city - he had no illusions; that was an occupation and nothing less - but was convinced otherwise by his advisors, and pulled his soldiers out. Instead, he had his engineers build a series of forts close to Abu Hamed and had the new spread that the humans were free to come and trade with Deepkin merchants whenever they wanted. After a bit of uncertainty, the elves allowed for it, but the doors of Abu Hamed were firmly closed after twilight, a clear sign of who was in command of the city now.

For a time, the High Elves busied themselves fortificating their new encapment while the Deepkin informed with the humans come to trade about the situation inside the city. It had turned out that the Ulthuani had aquainted themselves as good-mannered, if cold, guests, giving off the little-hidden impression that the humans of Abu Hamed had let themselves be bought by the Skaven, or were held in thrall by some foul mean. Assurances on the contrary had been given, but the Elves had remained unconvinced. They had said that they would remain until "they had a clear view of the entire situation", a phrase nobody held any illusion about.

Still, nothing could be done, for now.

Things threatened to change when the elven fortifications were complete. Under cover of night, a small army of keen-eyed elven scouts swarmed out to explore the land.

Despite having foreseen it, Zholk knew that his soldiers couldn't match the Ulthuani when it came to stealth and reconaissance. Still, he intended to make up for it. Abu Hamed stood in a small peninsula, and the elven camp was even further north in it. The Warlord had formed a noose around its opening with his line of forts, and now he went to reinforce it. He had a first line of surveillance made up of over-sized patrols that acted in shift, without ever letting up the control. After it, a second line was formed by riders that moved in loose formations and followed the same, costant effort. Third, another line, this one mixed and reinforced with mages. For this task, he didn't spare his veteran Underrunners and Underdwellers, experts in stealth and tracking, be it by eye or nose.

So, it started a sort of a secret war, with the elves trying to sneak out and then back in without getting caught, and the Deepkin that sought to intercept them. The Ulthuani had the edge when it came to skill, and, testament to it, managed to pull up an impressive string of succesful missions, but the Skaven replied by sheer numbers and commitment.

Eventually, something that Zholk had hoped for happened: an Elven scout was captured.

_Grok watched the elf with a mix of curiosity and distaste. No matter how many times he saw their kind, he couldn't bring himself to stop disliking them. No whiskers, no tail, no fur, no hunch. And, worst of all, that horrible, expressionless flat face that he always struggled to understand. Yuck, ugly. Ugly ugly ugly. _

_If the elf perceived his thoughts, she didn't show it. Well, he thought the elf was a she. She had the tiny bumps on her chest - only two? Yuck! - and somewhat softer features than the males. At least in this, they strayed a bit toward the normal. Nasty beasties. _

_"Hey, elf!" He greeted, deciding that the quicker he was done with this, the better. _

_The she-elf said nothing, her face an expressionless mask as she glared at him. Swathed in the mimetic garb of the elven scout, she stood tall and defiant, apparently unconcerned by the Skaven sorrounding her. _

_Grok couldn't but smirk a bit. She had fight in her, this one. Now, that was something he could get on. _

_"I don't know if you understand me, but here's the deal." He waved his spear to emphasize. "We aren't going to roast you or anything, we are going to let you go." The elf's posture stiffened of the smallest it, making Grok's grin grow larger. Ah, so she understand, did she? "But in exchange you bring this to your bosses." He gestured to a Skaven soldier that, eying warily the she-elf, carried a sealed parchment, stamped with the claw-mark of Zholk. "My bosses want to pick up the conversation with your bosses. They left it a bit in the middle, eh?"_

_The she-elf watched the parchment being offered to her, but, apart from clenching her fists, didn't move. _

_Grok rolled his eyes. "Boys, get on with it." _

_The she-elf didn't look very much pleased after the Deepkin let her go, the elven encampment on sight on the horizon. Well, Grok had to admit, he also wouldn't be happy if someone took away his bow, arrows and weapons - boy, that girl had a lot of weapons -, tied him like a chicken, put a parchment on his back and sent him marching away alone in the night. Still, she was alive, wasn't she? That had to be worth something. _

The message explained the Deepkin's position in a way that left no room for misunderstandings.

This was their land, they said, and they were more than ready to defend it with blade and magic against any threat. But, they were also ready to be accomodating. They would give the Elves commercial privileges, respect the neutrality of the people of Abu Hamed, not interfere in any way with trade and even allow the High Elves to mantain a garrison in the territory of the city. The Elves had only to keep their forces in the region under a threshold of one thousand soldiers and twenty ships, not build any stone-type fortification and not send their troops more than twenty miles in-land. The tone of the letter was firm, but also hopeful for a possible understanding that, maybe, could become the beginning of a mutual cooperation.

Zholk, that had stamped its claw-mark only grudgingly, didn't share the optimism of the majority of his advisors. Not by words, he felt, that mistrust would be ended, but by facts and shed blood.

Still, surprisingly enough, two days later a human from the city presented himself to one of the forts, carrying a reply.

The Elves declared that they were inclined to accept, but that they needed the approvation from their superiors back on Ulthuan before. A magical comunication had been sent already, and they were only waiting for the reply. Still, they requested insurances that the Skaven would not return on their word.

Zholk wasn't pleased by how the Elves kept referring to them only as Skaven, while he kept insisting on the Deepkin. Nor he missed the implicit threat: the elves were in costant communication with their homeland, they could bring out the big guns whenever they felt.

Chewing on bitterness, he made the human messenger carry the reply. The Deepkin, Deepkin!, would send hostages to the Elves, and allow a minor Burrow, the closer to the city, to be put under elven tutelage. It was an enormous concession, and one that Zholk was not keen at all to give, but his advisors had managed to convince him. The Elves, they said, wouldn't trust them without at least such a concession.

The Elves accepted, and it was so that a contingent of hostages was sent toward Abu Hamed. The Shaskar Zzkrit led them, the ancient Deepkin, too old to walk, carried by a small litter. To see the Shaskar go was a heavy blow for the Deepkin, but it was a sign of hope too. How could the Elves doubt the Deepkin, after seeing the holiness of the Shaskar? Many consoled themselves with that thought, even while their hearts ached for the loss.

Indications for the Burrow were exchanged, and a contingent of elven scouts was allowed to pass the Deepkin lines. They reached the settlement, hidden deep in the forest. Many worried gazes were thrown by the inhabitants toward that silent line of garbed figures, but the elves didn't remain. They stalked back as quick as they had come, returning to their encampment.

His advisors pushed him to give a show of trust, maybe retreating further back from the sea, but Zholk didn't let himself be convinced this time. The elves had to do their part before he allowed for more concessions.

Despite the Warlord's own attitude, for the following week optimism was at an all-time high.

The elves had stopped their exploratory runs and the people of Abu Hamed said that they seemed to have somewhat relaxed. Even the hostages were allowed, from time to time and only in small groups, to return to camp. Sure, the elves didn't show any trace of wanting to pull back yet, but, hey, it wasn't an easy feat. Maybe they had their own back and forth with their bosses back in Ulthuan, trying to decide what to do. And anyway, even if they decided to go for it and an army showed up, the Deepkin were securely entrenched and fortified. Military discipline was never let up and every soldier slept with his weapons close at hand. The Ulthuani would see that to try violence was to run toward disaster.

To many, it seemed that the diplomatic approach was going to give good fruit.

Then the dragons came.

_It was deep in the night and fog blanketed everything. Fires burned low and, in their postations in the forts, sentries squinted into the foggy dark. _

_A cry came, powerful and reverberating. Soldiers in guard duty jumped and looked around, trying to understand where it had come from. _

_"What is happening?" Shouted a Spearchief, but none knew the answer. Soldiers rushed to their positions. Eyes peered into the night sky, fingers closed around spears's handles._

_Suddenly, a shadow covered the stars. _

_The soldiers managed to widen their eyes, but not to shout. Flame washed over them, and everything was death and destruction._

_Mighty wings into the night, the brilliant light of the angry flames, and the roars, the horrible roars, rising high into the sky. And the fire feasted, over mangled bodies and crumblimg wood. _

The line of forts that the Deepkin had built to block the access to the peninsula was burst apart. Five dragons, having come unseen into the night, fell upon it like birds of prey. They burned the wooden walls and the soldiers manning them, then fell upon what remained with fangs and claws.

Taken by surprise, overhelmed by the titanic beasts, the Deepkin fell to chaos. They broke and ran, searching desperately to escape. Hundreds of them were killed, burned by flame, ripped apart by claws, hunted into the darknened savannah for all night.

Only a few, the ones that had managed to keep their wits, managed tor reach the main encampment, bringing frantic word of what was happening.

The wrath of Zholk was terrible, but he couldn't do nothing. He couldn't ran into the night wihout preparation, risking to have his own soldiers become prey to elven ambushers.

Almost foaming at the mouth, he ordered the defences manned and that none leave them until order came. The Deepkin obeyed, and for them a night of nightmare passed as, huddling in their trenches and behind their cannons, they had to listen to the roars of monsters and the screams of their unfortunate comrades, coming from the unpenetrable darkness that stood beyond the light of their torches.

Eventually, dawn arrived, and the savannah showed its face once more. A face that had become ghastly.

Where the forts stood, there were only ruins of burned wood, while the mangled bodies of the fugitives dotted the countryside. A group of them stood barely outside of the circle of light projected by the torches, reached by doom a step away from safety.

Blinking blearily into the foggy air of morning, the Deepkin were still trying to come to terms with the tragedy, when the call of a clarion pierced the silence, cristalline and clear.

An army of elven soldiers advanced into the countryside, a sea of glittering silver bristling with spears. The banners of Eataine and Cothique billowed into the rising wind of the morning, out-numbered by the rampant dragon of Caledor. Above the host, the five dragons flew, their roars filling the sky.

Looking at that army, Zholk felt immense wrath, but knew that he couldn't give battle, not now that his soldiers were demoralised and exhausted by an entire night without sleeping. Biting back his emotions, he ordered a general retreat.

The Deepkin camp was connected to the underground by large openings, and it was to these now that the soldiers, barely held into a cohesive formation by their Chiefs, streamed to. The elves didn't give chase, limiting themselves to just watch as the ratmen disappeared underground.

Zholk was the last to retreat from the rising sun, his thoughts a mix of hatred for the elves and of deep, deep anguish for his lost soldiers and those that he had given away as hostages.

_Shaskar Zzkrit closed the eyes of the unmoving soldier. There was sadness in her chest, like a stone lodged there. Poor child, poor Thruk, he had fought so hard to defend her. _

_She turned her eyes up, to the assassin, towering over her._

_"Imrik of Caledor." She said, that name seeming to burn her tongue with the fire of volcans and mighty reptils. _

_Imrik was like a dragon would be in human form. Imposing like doom, lofty like the burning mountains. Fierce light burned in his eyes, the smouldering of flame._

_Zzkrit felt his disdain, his pride, his strenght; it pushed over her like the heat from an open furnace. She had seen Thruk rip apart a Troll, and still the head of his guards had been but a child before the Dragon King of Caledor. _

_"You are indeed a fearsome warrior, the scourge of your enemies." She said, holding that smouldering gaze. She didn't fear death, she had lived enough, but the sadness in her breast was immense. "But you are also a fool." _

_Imrik raised his sword for a killing strike. _

_Zzkrit never turned to look the falling blade. "I am Zzkrit. Remember my name. You'll hear it again."_

_The sword fell._

_Abu Hamed had been cleansed of the Skaven taint. _

With the arrival of Imrik, the situation had been completely changed. The proud lord of Caledor had received news of the empasse in the Land of Assassins by his own subjects into the fleet, and had been appaled. Sons and daughters of Ulthuan, lowering themselves to negotiate with vermin? That would not stand.

He had put together an army and, leading it personally, took to the sea, determinated to put an end to the humiliating charade. In a way, the news had been almost welcomed. Ulthuan was at peace for far too long for his taste, and he had been itching for a fight.

Riding on his comrade, the great dragon Minaithnir, he had flown across the ocean, other four dragons at his side.

Taken contact with the elven fleet, he had immediately dismissed the Sea Helm in command and had him thrown in jail. The fool had actually allowed himself to be impressed by the lies of the Skaven, and wavered from the rightful proposition of just slaughtering them wholesale, instead losing time in bumbling discussions. If not for treason, he deserved to be jailed for his idiocy alone.

The rest of the command staff, wavering morons of Cothique and Eataine that had shared their commander's lack of character, were put aside and the command was given to proper Caledorian nobles.

Then, Imrik had set himself to work.

The fools had let themselves to be bottled up into the small peninsula, allowing the Skaven to erect a series of fortifications. If the elves were to resume freedom of movement, they had to be destroyed.

Caledor had his mages raise a magical fog, and, under its protective pall, the fleet he had brought from Ulthuan entered into harbour. Abu Hamed had been seized immediately, its inhabitants stopped from betraying the elves to the foul Skaven, while the rest of the army disembarked north, joining with the troops already on the ground.

Then, with the fall of night, the dragons had attacked.

The strike had been quick and devastating, and, as expected, the Skaven broke and ran as the cowards they were. Imrik had his dragons keep up their hunt for all night, a fitting refreshment after the long boredom of peace, and a good tool to spread further terror.

It had worked, so much that the Skaven had abandoned the rest of the fortifications, retreating underground.

Imrik hadn't given chase - the under world was a treacherous place, and the Skaven weren't to be thrusted -, but it didn't matter. The region was ripe for the taking now.

Bands of outsider were unleashed, tasked with attacking the Burrow that the Skaven had revealed - Imrik was appaled by the carelessness with which they sold each other's lives, but what could be expected by vermin? -. Still, the ratmen had vacated the area already. The outsiders burned filthy hovels and tore down flimsy buildings, but that was that.

Imrik didn't think much about it, he had more urgent things to care about.

After a careful consideration, he decided to adopt a defensive stance. He was loath to let the ratmen think him scared, but it played all to his advantage. He could take control of the Land of Assassins, but he didn't have with him the numbers to keep it, and the Skaven would bring guerrilla against his out-stretched forces, with mounting casualties and no gains. On the other side, these filthy rats seemed very keen to keep the place for themselves. Probably, the turmoil in the mountains had to do with some very important campaign of them, and they wanted their flank to be secured. If he gave them time to overcome their craven insticts, it was likely they would return in force to try and push him out. And then, he woud crush them all in a single swoop, freeing that land from their taint for decades to come. Ulthuan would have been freed to estabilish colonies to make use of its resources.

Yes, that was the right approach.

Set on his course of action, Imrik gathered his war-council, and started to hand out his orders.

Meanwhile, deep underground, Zholk's rage simmered.

_The air in the war-council was heavy. The loss of the Shaskar had been a heavy blow for everybody, like someone had snatched away the light that led their steps, leaving only cold darkness in its stead. _

_It didn't help that everybody know that they were the only one to blame for what had happened. They had been the one to trust the elves, and their brothers and sisters had paid for it._

_And still, the atmosphere in the room wasn't one of surrender, nor of resignation. They were past those by now. Now, officers snapped at the air like angry dogs, or stood as still as ice statues. Those that earlier had called for peace now passed tongues over chisel-like teeth and caressed the hilts of weapons. And all the presents shared the same, smouldering eyes. _

_The war-council thrummed with barely contained anger, destructive energy just teetering out of sight. Truax could feel it, almost taste it, an electric discharge dancing over the tongue, like when she worked with caged lightning. She knew that her eyes were just the same as those, and she didn't care. _

_At the center of that surging energy, the Warlord towered, a mass of brooding shadows, unmoving, like someone had sculpted a hulking Deepkin out of iron. _

_The Oathsworn guards kneeled before their lord in a half-circle. Hands gripped sheated weapons, jaws were clenched, shoulders tensed. _

_Truax couldn't bring herself to understand the depth of the bond that tied Warlords to their Oathsworns, it was a thing moulded by birth and unrelenting dedication, nor she could understand what to fail meant for those that had made of victory for their race reason of their existence. And still, in that smouldering energy that she felt in her in that moment, she felt to have seized upon at least a flicker of that flame. _

_"We have sent them our light." The voice of the Warlord was like a knife in the tense air. Deep, brooding, it had a growl to it that made Truax's fur stand on an end. "And they have smothered it. They have robbed us of it." The Warlord didn't turn to assess their determination, didn't hesitate, he just asked. "Will you follow me into vengeance and retribution?" _

_None in the council said nothing. They just kneeled before their Warlord, offering him their weapons, offering themselves to follow him into the jaws of hell itself._

_And just like that, the decision for bloody battle was taken. _

_In his corner, Grok thumped a hand over his paunch and let out a fierce laughter. _

The betrayals of the pacts and the murder of the Shaskar, which new was brought by a soldier that ha managed to escape from the city, plunged the Deepkin into dejection, then, into bloody anger.

The time for diplomacy was gone. Now, they would throw the elves back into the sea by force of arms and avenge their fallen comrades and prophet with the blood of Ulthuan.

To the sound of drums and war-horns, the Deepkin emerged. Rank after rank of Kinrats, Underrunners and Gunrats, tens of thousands of ratmen soldiers thirsty for revenge. With them, clanking machines rolled forward, pushed by gears and pistons and chugging steam.

This time, Zholk didn't seek to set camp nor to stall. He deployed right at the center of the Land of the Assassins, where the savannah was an uninterrupted expanse. He showed Imrik that he wasn't going to hide, he threw the gauntlet to the Dragon King, challenging him to come forward.

And Imrik came.

The Lord of Dragons didn't think that the Skaven attacked out of revenge or challenge. For him, they weren't enough to conceive such notions. Even now, he thought they came to battle only out of hunger and foolish spite. What else could be pushing them to face the mighty dragons?

It didn't matter. They had offered themselves on a silver plate. He only had to reach and take victory now.

At his order, the Elves left their encampment and marched south to meet the invaders. Their host made for a marvelous sight in the morning light, the silver of Eataine mixing with flaming red of Caledor into a glittering whole. As one the Elves marched, like a beast of legend came to slay its enemies.

The two armies met into a wide savannah plain, with no natural obstacle in sight but grass and bushes burned by the sun.

Imrik could be arrogant and prideful like only a Dragon Lord could be, but he was all but an unexperienced commander. He instantly recognized that the Skaven before him were of quality uncommon, and reacted accordingly.

His army was composed of roughly twelve thousands soldiers, of which nine thousands was infantry.

Imrik had his spearmen form up into a checkerboard formation, with the spaces between the first line filled with masses of archers. The second line was formed instead by Sea Guards. Dozens of Lothern Sky Cutters floated above the infantry lines, ready to offer support. The strengh of this formation was spread evenly, as Imrik counted on using it only as an anvil with which to hold the enemy force. The true hammer of his army was the cavalry, three thousands proud Ulthuan knights, of which one thousand Ellyran Reavers, one thousand and four hundred Silver Helms, resplendant in their Ithilmar liveries, and the rest a small but powerful core of elite Dragon Princes, haughty princes enclosed by superb armors and wielding powerful lances, whose charge could shatter any defence. He had them form up on both flanks, holding the Dragon Princes in reserve.

And still, the element upon which Imrik put all of his trust was in the sky. Five Dragons, three of which were Sun Dragons, one a Moon Dragon, upon which the Dragon Mage Calandrias rode, and the last his own steed, mighty Minaithnir. The Dragon King had little experience fighting Skaven, having passed the great part of his carrer battling Dark Elves, but believed that little could stand in the way of such a force.

He also had a number of Eagle Bolt Throwers, that he had positioned in the rear, and a contingent of some hundreds scouts, soldiers trained to fight as Shadow Warriors, but he held them in little esteem. No true warrior would fight in such cowardly way. Still, under the insistence of the chief scout, whose sister had suffered some kind of insult by the ratmen, he allowed them to try and disable the warmachines that the Skaven would presumibly make use of. Imrik doubted that they could prove much of a problem, but still.

His forces set, the Dragon King vaulted over his comrade's back and flew on the sky, thirst for battle burning in his chest.

On the other side, Zholk was making his own preparations.

Differently from Imrik, he had extensive knowledge of the High Elves's ways. After the failed Invasion of Eataine by Clan Scrab, the lords of the Under-Kingdom, worried by the might of the Ulthuani, had started a thorough reasearch about how they made war. The Deepkin had bought elven weapons and armors, heard reports of spies and witnesses, used magical scrying and funded Errant Lodges's researches. That knowledge had been accumulated, conservated and then passed to Warlords like Zholk.

Now, for example, Zholk knew that elven bows outranged those of the Deepkin, arriving to surpass even Ratmuskets, as well as a bunch of other things that could be vital on the battlefield.

The Warlord was knee-deep in anger, but he didn't forget what he knew, and acted accordingly.

His army outnumbered the Elves considerably, consisting of a grand total of forty-five thousands battle-ready soldiers, of which thirty-five thousands were infantry and the rest cavarly and other types.

He had his Kinrat form up into two lines, with a strong center made up of Storm Rats and Red Bands forming into a double wedge. This formation opened to give space to three Juggernauts. Behind, Zholk had Underrunners armed with bows and slings, and Gunrats, muskets and Thumpers. On the flanks, he positioned his Warmolers and Runters, behind them contingents of Underrunners armed with pikes and his Hailshots. In the rear, he had his numerous cannons and mortars. Finally, behind the second line, his own command post. He stood sorrounded by his Oathsworn guards, the few Patriarchs he had with him, a battery of cannons, all his Mage-Engineers and acolytes and all of his Underdwellers. His standard was raised for all to see, a great banner depicting two claws breaking a curved horn. Beside it, another banner stood, the claw-mark representing the name of Zzkrit.

When the deployement was complete, the sun already in its way to ascend into the sky, Zholk advanced into the savannah. He watched his soldiers, controlling their arrangement, then the elven army into the distance, glittering beneath the light.

He turned to his mages and guards. They nodded or just gave him determinated glares, words unnecessary.

Zholk nodded on turn, then turned to look forward. For a moment, he enjoyed the morning breeze, the refresh it brought from the hot air of the south. Then, he gestured to his herald.

The Oathsworn brought the horn to his lips and blew, drawing a long and prolunged sound that rose high into the morning sky. The Deepkin clenched their weapons harder at hearing it. The Elves, wavered a little. Those of Eataine and Cothique, they had seen the Shaskar, heard her words. In their hearts, they doubted.

Atop his dragon, Imrik didn't doubt. He looked upon the army arrayed against him, then on the banner of its commander, raised for all those that owned the sky to see. He felt the gaze of the one standing underneath, felt the weight of his anger, his challenge.

A rat dared to challenge a dragon?

With a snarl, Imrik launched a cry. Rallying to his call, the dragons followed him and Minaithnir as they soared forward.

The dragons attacked directly the postation of the Warlord.

* * *

Author's notes: I am usually a follower of the politics of "Authors don't talk", but, eh, what the hell. With this, i'm starting a bit of a chronicle of the Ur-Kot, the rising of the Deepkin. It will be a string of battles against various races, interspersed with the rest of the Codex. For a change, i'd like to talk of the present instead of the past. Them boys of GW talked of the past for thirty something years and when they talked of the present, they blew out the world. So, yeah, let's talk of the present, but let's keep the world there. Goddammit, i don't like Age of Sigmar. Also, Imrik is a moron. And i am talking about the Canon Imrik. I hate him. Fuck dragons.

Anyway, in this chapter i have given more space to negotiation nonsense and number nonsense, part because i felt that the High Elves deserve a bit of brain-twisting diplomacy around them, and the rest because i am a filthy nerd. But Warhammer is a bad place and so battle and doom for all at the end of the day. Or just maybe.

A big thanks for all those that left and will leave a review. I love to hear about you guys' opinions on this little project, it really makes my day. So, if you have something you want to say, opinions, ideas, making me notice mistakes, don't hesitate to go ahead and say it. Do it, or rats will post a really unimpressed review of your house on the internet.

Peace.


	8. The battle of Dragon's Blood part 2

"Look how they come to us! The stunted lizards! They begs us to destroy them!" Warlord Zholk waved his sword against the rapidly approaching dragons, like it was easy for him to just reach upward and pluck them from the sky. "Fire! Fire! Blast them from the sky! Let our pain become theirs!"

At his order, arcane machinery and gunpowder were unleashed. Matches were ignited, letting cannons roar. Cranks and levers were pulled, and the contraptions of the League howled and spat. Cannonall shots and arcane projectiles streaked the sky.

With a nimbleness that belied their size, the dragons dodged and weaved through the barrage, most of the shots failing to connect. The few that managed to reach them clashed against scales and arcane protection, exploding uselessly.

"Fire!" Shouted Zholk. "Keep firing!"

The barrage continued, and the dragons kept on coming. At the same time, all the artillery from both armies opened fire. Cannons and mortars thundered, while Eagle Bolt Throwers unleashed rains of darts. The Deepkin had the edge when it come to long-range fire, but now all the eyes were pointed over the Dragons.

As much as the headquarters troops of Zholk pounded them, they came forward relentlessly, weaving a path into the sky amidst the rain of projectiles, that, at best, could only slow them.

And this situation, where cannons were reloaded and fired by the frantic motions of soldiers, and the Mage Engineers kept the fire up while sweating in their fur, had been brought up by the ongoing discussion between Zholk and Imrik.

From the istant the battle had began, they had started to talk, to communicate. Through their deployements, their attitudes, their decisions.

Imrik wasn't a fool. He had seen that the headquarters of Zholk had been positioned in such an exposed way only to entince him to attack, and he had noticed as well the heavy concentration of defence around it. It was a challenge, plain and simple, and one he just couldn't let pass him by.

Bu he wasn't a fool.

If he attacked in such a brazenly way, it was only in part for his own aggressive attitude. He had complete trust into the power of his aerial squad. The defence of scales was augmented by the enchantement of the Dragon Mage, as well as the bardings on the dragons. Dragon flame, weight, claw and fangs, and, in addition, elven magic. There was little in the world that could go toe-to-toe against such a might. And still, there was another weapon upon which Imrik put his trust.

Shock terror.

Hardened battle formations of soldiers, no matter their origins, wavered and escaped before the airborne assault of the dragons. How could it be different? They were lowly earthborn, fighting against lords of sky and flame. Such a contest could end only in a way, and that broke any morale, no matter how sturdy. Imrik had seen the most disciplinated phalanxes of the Dark Elves break under the pressure, even the fear of their superiors' lash fogotten before that overhelming might bearing down on them.

Imrik of Caledor wasn't a fool. He could be rash, imperious, arrogant, but he wasn't a fool.

His trust in the dragons was absolute, and he he was sure that he wasn't understimating the ratmen to think them unable to bear such a strain.

Zholk had raised his fist against him and said: "come to fight me. With all my might around me, i challenge you to a bloody duel." Underneath the layers of conceit and disdain, Imrik couldn't but feel a grudging respect for that adversary. Yet, foolish. That gauntlet, he had picked up gladly., and now, boldly, as everything he did, he went to deliver his answer. "I come." It said. "You thought that what you could muster was enough, but it's not. I will destroy you with everything you have."

And it seemed that destiny was to prove him right.

The Deepkin of the headquarters were furious for the betrayal of the Elves, furious for the invasion that threatened their long-awaited Ur-Kot, but, most of all, they were furious for their Shaskar.

The loss of a Shaskar could be barely expressed into words amongst the Deepkin, and other races would struggle to understand it. It was an ache that went beyond the individual and was keenly felt by everyone involved. More than the loss of a revered figure, it was more akin to a physical pain, like something had bit off a chunk out of their own hearts. And it went even deeper, into the soul. Where before there had been light and hope, now there was an emptiness, and in that emptiness there was darkness, and in that darkness there were eyes, and the gnashing of teeth, and the peals of a bell. A seed of terror had lodged itself into their hearts, like they had been left alone in the dark, with something terrible stalking it.

At that pain and fear, they had replied with anger and thirst and longing. Bravely they fought, unleashing barrage after barrage. When the dragons came close, the Mage-engineers raised their paws and chittered incantations, throwing gouts of lava and red lightning into the sky. When they came closer still, guns and rifles and harpoon launchers were shot, relentlessly, again and again.

A dragon was wounded, but it didn't even slow him down. Like shadows of doom, they kept coming. Draconic flame was unleashed, and the Mage-Engineers struggled to contain it. Walls of fire and energy were raised to block most of the attack, but still some were caught. Engulfed, they hadn't the time to scream before the fire of the ages consumed them whole, leaving only charred bones.

Still, the Deepkin held their positions, unleashig their own defiance.

Another wound. Draconic scales flew into the air. Still the dragons came, roaring.

Eventually, that seed in the chests of the Deepkin, stubbornly contained by angry defiance, couldn't be kept at bay anymore. It blossomed into panic and terror and despair. The gunners's paws stilled, trembling convulsively over cannonballs and gunpowders. Rotating cranks stilled, arcane generators fizzled, sparks of energy remaining unused.

Only the Warlord, his Oathsworns and the Patriarchs maintaned the calm. The anger of the broken-horn ran deeper than their smaller cousins, their only reason of live to fight against the enemies of the Under-Kingdom. Not even the terror of the dragons could quench their fires. The Patriarchs', instead, was a cold thing, solid and unforgiving like the hearts of mountains. Death held no hold over them, no matter where it came from.

Zholk stood at the center of that maelstrom of budding panic and stubborn defiance. As a Warlord, that was where he was supposed to be. If the Shaskar was the soul, he was the head and the muscle. Upon his shoulders' fell the military leadership and logistical organization and, now, without the Shaskar, his job had just been made twice as hard. As much as he was able, he simply couldn't fill the void left by the priestess, none but a Shaskar could fill a Shaskar's role.

So, he did the only thing he could.

Imrik wasn't surprised to see the ratmen leave their equipment and scatter. It was just what he expected after all. What it surprised him was that they seemed to disappear at astonishing speed, vanishing behind bushes and grass like the earth had opened up to swallow them. In a matter of istants, where the headquarters' troops were stationated, remained only the empty savannah.

With their prey gone, the dragons stopped their assault, starting to circle into the sky in mild confusion.

Imrik gave a quick look at the empy space, now littered with abandoned warmachines. He was divided between the surprise for the quickness of the scurrying away and the disdain for a general abandoning his troops so callously. The second quickly took supremacy. Well, he supposed that was to be expected from vermin.

His gaze moved upon the rest of the battlefield.

The bombardment was still on-going, both forces hammering at each other while mantaining their own positions. His troops were at disadvantage, he noticed with a frown. The ratmen held the superiority in numbers about artillery and their cannons blasted holes into the High Elves' lines, while the darts of the Bolt Throwers reaped a noticeably smaller toll.

Responding to a call from the Dragon Mage, he decided to issue new orders on the nobles riding on the other dragons. They would swoop over the ratmen's army and unleash a volley of flame and spells. That ought to rebalance the fight.

Still, his mind kept on returning on the so-quick scurrying away of what he had presumed to be the Skaven general, and, in particular, over the boltholes that his troops had used. They looked to have been dug already and, judging from how many and how well-positionated, they were…

A suspect wormed its way into his mind. Imrik was about to communicate it to his comrades, when a blast exploded from beneath. What it followed was something he was keenly accostumed to, and that it still managed to seize his heart every time he heard it: a dragonic roar of pain.

Imrik's instincts as a commander took over his own heart. He looked at the ground far beneath, seeing smoke rising from the savannah.

There was another blast, followed by a sound that made his bones rattle, and then another roar.

Bewildered, Imrik finally watched his squadron. Two dragons had been wounded. They wobbled in the air, letting out roars of distress and gouts of blood from horrendous gouges in their sides.

Imrik didn't have the time to repress his dismay. There was another blast, another ear-shattering sound and this time he clearly felt a projectile piercing the air at some distance from him, missing his dragon only because Minaithnir had the readiness to swirl aside.

Imrik found himself staring into his comrade's wide eye, seeing his own alarm reflected back at him. What new devilry was that? What weapon could unleash such high-powered projectiles?

Another blast exploded, and Calandrias' magic barriers flared a strained red as he and his dragon were engulfed by an angry explosion. Both emerged unscathed, but that was all that Imrik needed to see.

"Retreat! Retreat!" He called. The situation didn't give him time to chafe at the order, like he would have done normally. Now his dragons were in mortal dangers, and he had to save them. Nothing else mattered.

The squadron pivoted and flew away, trying to get away from whatever it was that was bombarding them with such ferocious accuracy. Calandrias' staff shone with silvery light as the Dragon Mage extended his protection over the two wounded dragons, that struggled to follow their brethren.

As they took flight, another projectile pierced through the sky. Imrik felt it pass him by, a vibration rattling through him, putting his teeth on edge.

Anger toward himself and toward those cowardly ratmen burned through him. It was clear that their preparations went deeper than he thought. That commander had challenged him to come forward, to fight in a duel, but in truth he had only put himself as a bait, wanting for him to push his dragons into an already built killing zone.

He had no idea what contraption could discharge such power, but, his pride burning fiercely, he understood to have been outplayed. He had understimated those vermin's craftiness, thought that their foolishness could have pushed them to some twisted sense of honor and then into open battle. And his comrades had paid for it. Even while he retreated, wracked by anger and guilt, Imrik swore that he would have his revenge.

A last shot streaked the clouds before the dragons managed to regain the sky above the elven formations.

The jeers and triumphant shouts of the Deepkin followed them, while the elves watched wide-eyed as their dragons allies, mighty kings of the sky, were forced back.

_Ultra-coil pyro-cannon_

_The Leagues of the Mage-Engineers have produced wonders down the centuries, but when the Ur-Kot broke out, the Pyro-cannon stood as the cutting edge of their technology._

_The weapon has the form of an enormous cannon attached to a wheeled metal chamber. Four great bellows are attached to the chamber, the energy necessary for their motion provided by four carriage-mounted pyro-batteries each._

_The Pyro-cannon is extremely complex and extremely difficult to produce. The pyro-batteries alone are high-grade, precious technological marvels, the barrel can be built only using a special alloy made of minerals mined into the deep, and which mining is expensive and difficult. Great quantities for size of coal are needed to power it and it's a very temperamental technology. In fact, inside the iron chamber, warded magically, lays a furnace that countains a living flame harvested from the deep. The flame is a terrifically powerful, raging thing that has to be kept in perpetual slumber, lest it break out and ravage everything it finds. When the weapon is readied to fire, coal and magic is fed to the furnace, making the flame blaze back to life. The feeding has then to be continued to keep it in check. While the crew move the barrel in line with the target, the bellows are put in action, pumping air into the furnace, so that the flame is stoked even more. When the target is acquired, the bullet, usually made of enchanted alloy, is loaded into the barrel. It's only then that the furnace, kept under careful check until then, is stoked to anger, stopping both the feeding of fuel and air. The living flame inside will immediately explode into rage and the energy released will be channelled into the barrel, shooting out the bullet._

_Bullets thrown in such a way acquire a tremendous speed and penetration force. There have been tests with consecutive fortress walls being pierced clean without the projectile even slowing down._

_As it might be expected, to fire such a weapons is terribly dangerous, let alone time and resource-consuming. An entire Brootherood of mage has to be delegated only to keep the living flame in check at any moment, and this is a process that require the utmost concentration and effort. When the flame is angered, only by massive force of will can be subdued once again, with the ever-present risk of disaster. This slows down drammatically the shooting speed and even the rapidity with which the weapon can be relocated, since any movement require much attention to avoid that the entity inside awaken. Also, the stress caused by the blast is such that the barrel require often to be swapped._

_All the investments in resources, ratpower, security and time generally relegate the Pyro-Cannon to static defence. The only reason Zholk managed such a success again the dragons was because the Land of Assassins was a warehouse already stocked full with war materiel, amongst them six of these monstrous weapons. The Warlord had them trasported from the Great Burrow as quick as possible and, disregarding any safety protocol, had them assembled and then fired one after the other. Considering what time constraints they have been forced to work under, almost all of the Mage-Engineers present during the firing consider a sheer miracle that the only problems were three of the six barrels melting under the stress. They were also all adamant that such a hurried deployement could not be repeated, even while having doubt if the weapons could be used again after that._

Shouts of alarm crossed their lines. The Skaven first line was starting to march forward. Their morale high, they were coming to seize the chance.

On the other side, the Elves had just seen their greatest champions just pushed back, and the bombardament had taken its toll upon them. Their morale wavered, but they were sons and daughters of Ulthuan and weren't going to give up ground without a hard contest.

Whispering prayers to their Gods, they met the Deepkin charge with closed ranks and lowered spears.

The two formations clashed fiercely against each other. Emboldened and thirsty for payback, the Deepkin pushed the Elves hard, their strong centre especially reaping a hard toll over their counterpart. The spearmen opposed a strong, disciplinated resistance, but their shields were smashed asunder by the savage assault of the Stormrats, mails and helms then crushed under flurries of angry blows. The Red Bands proved to be fearsome enemies as well, their own skill and discipline countering those of the elves.

On the flanks, things went better. The Silver Helms and Reavers countered with their superb training and skill the higher numbers of Warmolers and Runters. Especially the superior speed of their mounts helped them to keep an edge over their slower adversaries, allowing them to avoid being encircled. But even they managed only to keep the contest even, and not to tip it to their advantage.

Meanwhile, the Warmages not attached to the Headquarters duelled with the Ulthuan mages, both ignoring their own troops to counter the magic of each other. Even here, the power and skill of High Magic was kept at bay by the sheer numbers and stubborness of the Choirs.

For hours the battle went on, with the High Elves painfully managing to stem the angry tide of the Deepkin.

Then, with a terrible roar, mighty Minaithnir plowed into the fray. The ancient dragon smashed through the wedge of the Stormrats, crushing many Skaven under his bulk and savaging more with claws and fangs. Atop him stood Imrik of Caledor, his eyes blazing with terrible light as he wielded the Starlance with deadly effect. Many fell to him, pierced straight through like their armor was nothing but paper. Behind the deadly duo, the Dragon Mage Calandrias came atop his Moon Dragon Selenya. Calling to himself the elven mages, he formed a matrix of eldritch power, then unleashed it in terrible discharges of lightning. They had stood aside, attending to their dragons' wounds while waiting for the right moment to attack, but now they couldn't wait anymore.

Under the assault of the dragons, the offensive of the Deepkin center collapsed. They retreated frantically, barely managing to keep their formation as they did.

The elves made to surge forward, but the Shieldchiefs unleashed their stored spells, the fusillade of magical projectiles keeping them at bay. The dragons also didn't give chase, Imrik deciding to cut his losses after that Selenya had been grievously wounded by the spear of a burly Skaven and to avoid end as a target for the Skaven artillery. He had enough of dragon blood for that day.

Tired and ragged, the two armies retook their distance, returning to their starting positions.

The land where they had battled was filled with corpses. Two thousands Deepkin laid into the bloodied dust of the savannah alongside one thousand High Elves, the armors of the fallen rent and smashed. It had been a bloody day, and it had seen the Deepkin coming out decidedly on top. Their numbers allowed them to absorb their losses, while the Elves simply couldn't.

The Deepkin commanders decided that it was enough. They made sound the retreat, and their army retreated, before disappearing once again underground.

Battered and bloodied, the High Elves remained master of the battlefield, with only the dead and the dust as company.

_Sea Helm Iryien watched grimly her soldiers perform the rites of the after-battle. Patrols stalked the battlefield, searching for the dead. The corpses were then gathered in an orderly fashion in a pre-arranged open space outside camp. There, armors were stripped, wounds closed or covered up and features arranged into something much more dignified that rictus of pain or terror. It was a sad, hushed endeavour, with the elves moving in measured movements and talking in whispers. Many had lost comrades and dear friends that day._

_Iryien's expression was serious as she oversaw everything, but behind her cobalt eyes a tempest raged._

_The number of the fallen dismayed her. At least one tenth of the army had been ripped apart in a single day. The enemies paid at least double that number, but what there was to be cheerful for? They had deployed so many soldiers that she doubted their numbers could be so much but dented by those losses. The elves on the other hand…_

_Iryien repressed a surge of anger. So many dead, and all for that stupid piece of land! If it fell to her, she would have reimbarked and fled back to Ulthuan right away. Yes, fled. Whatever stupid pride her superiors had in the renitence in uttering that word, it didn't find purchase over her. Uttering, let alone actually undertaking it. To the nobles of Caledor, it seemed that retreat was akin to death to Slaanesh. During the council after the battle, those that had tried to put the possibility forward had been promptly thrown out. Better to stay and die for this land forgotten by the gods, of course._

_"It doesn't look good, Sea Helm."_

_Iryien gave to Sea Captain Ferrien a scowling glance. She didn't need her second's remarks right now._

_"Our commander will decide how the situation looks, Sea Captain." She said stiffly. "Look to your task."_

_Too disciplinated to reply, Ferrien only bowed and went back to work._

_Watching him go, Iryen regretted her sharp words, but what else she could do? Imrik had eyes and ears everywhere and didn't take well to those that doubted. Her precedent superior, Terillian, could well vouch for that._

_Iryien's scowl deepened. She knew what the soldiers said. Them of Cothique and Eataine weren't forced to obey those of Caledor, but in truth the situation was much more complicated than that. Imrik was part of the war council of King Finubar and his authority reached long, intertwining in a thousand ways with the other Realms. Elven sages could have passed months arguing where and when the Caledor King could exercise his command, and surely such a discussion went over a Sea Helm of her rank. The only thing she could do was to obey._

_And that worried her deeply._

_She watched the corpse-strewn battlefield, where her soldiers moved corpses around for the gathering. They were meticulous, making sure to pick up any personal object. They were to be shipped back to Ulthuan and then consigned to the families of the fallen._

_Iryien pressed her lips into a thin line. How many would have to cry for a son, a daughter, a husband, fallen into a far-away land, with only a memento to remember them?_

_There was nothing to gain from those gloomy places, so she moved her thoughts away from it._

_Her soldiers touched the Skaven only to extricate their fallen. For the rest, they took care to not even brush against them, like the corpses could suddenly jump back and go for their throats any moment._

_Iryien would have wanted to be different, but found that she couldn't._

_Those Skaven… they scared her._

_She had heard tales of the ratmen, of course. Evil beastmen, coming forward into hunger-maddened swarms to reap and tear and gorge, uncaring of any loss, while from behind gree-glowing contraptions unleashed hell upon friends and foes, uncaring of what they hit._

_Well, these Skaven weren't like that._

_They came forward into disciplinated formations, their weapons aimed true and were deadly enough to scare away dragons._

_Iryien repressed a shudder at the thought. Morale between the soldiery wasn't good after that, and she couldn't blame her. And still, it wasn't what concerned her the most. Those Skaven… she hadn't felt hunger or desperation or madness from them._

_She had felt anger. Terrible, all-consuming, devouring anger. She had felt it like the scalding air coming out from a forge. They were angry, terribly so, and all that anger was directed at them. And they chanted, she could still hear that terrible chant, that name repeated again and again, hitting deeply inside of her each time it was uttered. They called the name of the one they had killed - she stopped herself short from thinking assassinated - in the city._

_She had met that ratman, together with Terillian, and from her, in her words, in her eyes… she was scared, terribly scared that they were making a mistake, one that went over the simple overstimating themselves and clinging to stubborn pride. She…_

_"Sea Helm? Are you okay?"_

_Iryien returned from her thoughts with a start. Since when her second had been calling her?_

_With dismay, she noticed that a few eyes were directed at her also. She must have been daydreaming a little too much._

_She swallowed, noticing only then that she was sweating cold._

_"Yes… yes, i am okay, Captain. I was just… thinking."_

_The Sea Captain nodded, but his eyes told another story. With a jolt of dread, Iryien noticed comprehension, and a fear that reflected her own. The same she saw on the few eyes that watched her._

_But then, everyone returned to work, and the moment was gone._

_Iryien remained to watch the sun dip into the sea, hoping against hope that their own light wasn't fading as well._

Caledor's decision to stand and fight wasn't met with approvation by the non-Caledorian part of the army, both them and his own soldiers having their morale brought low by their losses and by seeing the dragons pushed back; but he was a commander that knew how to have his way and the high-command was all composed by like-minded Caledor nobles anyway.

So, the Elves prepared themselves to make battle once again the day after. They gathered and burned their dead, a somber affair that did nothing to better their morale. Their main encampment was further fortified, with a ditch dug around it, stakes driven into the ground and the palisade made higher and stronger. The Elves didn't try to man the entrance of the peninsula, lacking the numbers to do so, but set a strong network of scouts to pick night attacks.

All set, they retired to their tents and to an agitated sleep, their dreams troubled.

While the pires burned into the night, keen-eyed scouts and mages kept control over the sorrounding countryside. Their surveillance was to prove itself a very good thing.

Despite the tiredness, Elves sleep lightly and with their armors on, and so when the clarions sounded the alarm, they were quick to take up arms once again. Disciplinately, they streamed out of their tents and gathered under the command of their officers, ready for orders.

_Anur_

_In Deepkin society, one of the few crimes considered more grievious than killing one's own parents and children is the killing of a Shaskar. Shaskars carry within themselves a light that touches any Skaven soul not enslaved to the Horned Rat, a purity that defy words and that the Deepkin consider to be a shard of the Goddess. To kill such holy prophets means to become an enemy of all Deepkin and to be awarded the title of Anur, a word that can roughly be translated with "Killer of Light" or "Blasphemer"._

_No Deepkin will ever give hospitality to an Anur, nor assistance of any kind. The only thing that an Anur can hope to receive from him is hatred and anger._

_If possible, the Anur will be hunted down and killed. Their body will be then vivisected and all the parts will receive a particular destiny. The hands and heart, for example, will be burned and the ashes scattered to the wind. The eyes, mouth, nose and ears will be stuffed full with excrements and buried in not consecrated land, the bones will be broken and the pieces used to adorn the tomb of the killed Shaskar. The list continues on meticulously. Should the culprit be beyond the reach of Deepkin justice, he or she will be banned forever from all lands subjected to the Under-Kingdom on pain of death. All of this has always been enforced as law by the Under-Kings that have succeded along the centuries, but it has never needed to be actually enforced, as any Deepkin will gladly proceed in the prescribed way against any recognized Anur._

_A famous case of Anur happened under the regency of Under-King Iriucus, when a young Deepkin killed a Shaskar by accident. The culprit submitted willingly to the process and then killed himself inside his cell, by breaking his head against the walls._

_The names of those that commit Shaskar killing are kept upon scrolls prepared only for such use. These unhallowed scrolls bear sigils of shame and condemnation and the names that they contain are then registered into a master scroll kept into Haven into the Hall of Blasphemy. Only when the culprit has known its punishment or, in exceptional cases, has somehow atoned for their crime, their name will be crossed over, but not removed._

_The name of Imrik was written on one of the scrolls by the paw of Zholk himself and there's no doubt about what destiny the Dragon King would incur if he happened to be caught by the Deepkin._

_Such it's the hatred and vengeance that the Deepkin reserve to those that wound their precious light._

The scouts had spotted three strong contingents of Skaven, numbering in the hundreds, making their way across the savannah in loose formations. They looked to be directed toward the ruins of the forts.

Amidst his warcouncil, Imrik thought the news over.

After the battle of the day earlier, he had taken a new, wary respect for this enemy. These Skaven had proved themselves crafty enough to draw him in with a feint and anyone capable of mustering power enough to wound a dragon in such a way was not to be underestimated. Upon these basis, it was clear that even this was only bait for another ambush.

On the other hand, he had passed a sleepless night, made restless by the guilt and the continuous visits to the wounded dragons and their riders. The reassurances by the healers that the dragons would heal in a matter of weeks did nothing to ease his burden, nor the companionship of Minaithnir. Only bloody vengeance would, he knew that.

And still, wounded pride aside, he had three dragons wounded and effectively out of the fight and an enemy out there that challenged him forward once again, maybe having ready weapons as much as powerful.

His instinct, as well as common sense, told him that such weapons couldn't be used easily, nor moved with speed. They would be known the world over otherwise.

And still, he couldn't risk it.

Even as his pride stung, he ordered that no soldier leave camp if not ordered otherwise. The irony was a painful one, since only the previou night it was the ratmen that had to hole up inside their camp, but nothing else could be done. Still, Imrik felt a flicker of satisfaction ordering the scouts to harass the ratmen as much as they could. They were ordered to keep the risks at a minimum, though. Providing information came before anything else.

Ilvac of Cothique, chief-explorer and commander of the scouts, was fiercely relieved by the orders. His sister had been captured and barbarously stripped of her beloved belongings. He was still replete with bewildered joy at having had the chance of seeing her again, he couldn't explain to himself why the ratmen hadn't just killed her, but had ended on settling over the insult. Probably the Skaven had wanted only to pour salt over the wound. Well, they were going to get what they deserved now.

The scouts, almost invisible between the grass of the savannah, stalked their quarry. Even they had acquired a healthy respect for their foes during the previous months and so kept a respectful distance.

The Skaven moved quickly, scampering on all four across the flat terrain. They carried no torches, the light of the moon apparently enough to light their way, but their armors rattled loudly, announcing their presence even before the sounds of their stomping.

Despite their chief's eagerness, the elves remained cautious. They had seen the ratmen scouts move in a much more stealthy way. This was a clear trap.

Some arrow was loosed, but few did more than whistle into the air or tunk into the dirt. The few ratmen wounded were just grabbed by their comrades, that carried them without slowing down.

Eventually, the three groups reached the ruins of the forts.

Under the elves' narrowed eyes, they started to rummage between the burned wood and fortifications. A strange hum reached keen elves' ears as strange contraptions were unearthed and reactivated. Still, they observed.

As the minutes and then hours passed, the Skaven went to patch up the fortifications. They dug a ditch, used axes and picks to break down the burned fortifications and erected new ones. There wasn't enough materiel to rebuild the fort, so they just heaped the ruins into low barricades.

Bewildered glances passed between the scouts. The Skaven were actually building patchwork fortifications with a bunch of broken and burned wood and nothing else. Even as they watched, new, smaller forts were taking shape. Yeah, they weren't nothing to be impressed at but they were always fortifications that could be used.

Imrik, that had been constantly uptaded, was concerned. Now that his dragons weren't as a secure asset as before, his battleplan hung over his cavalry. If completed, those forts could be a serious issue to it, acting as obstacles to his quick, hard-hitting units.

He was still pondering over this last piece of information, when another came, a garbed scout being hushed into his tent.

More Deepkin were arriving.

Mounted forces this time, thousands of ratmen mounted upon the same, strange rat-like creatures that had acted as cavalry during the battle. What was more, the banner of the Warlord was signalled amidst them.

That sent Imrik even deeper in thought. He cursed the fact that the ratmen could disappear underground and reapper whenever they wanted. It gave them the initiative, forcing him only to react, a role that he hated.

He forced those thoughts off, focusing on the matter on hand.

It was time to stop thinking about these monsters only as savages. It was clear that they had somewhat of a grasp of strategy. And it was clear that their commander was aggressive, incredibly so. Barely half a day had passed and he returned to challenge him to come and fight. Imrik had to push back the irritation at a stray thought: that Skaven warlord followed a style close to his own.

But enough of that, what to do now?

He could do two things from his perspective. He could take the prudent way, hole up in his camp and allow the Skaven whatever they wanted to do, or he could take the bait and go on the offensive. If he allowed them to do what they wanted, it wasn't unclear how far they could go. Maybe they would move those weapons forward, and he would have to concern himself with them during the battle of tomorrow, as well as those forts. He hadn't much faith in the soldiers of Eatain of Cothique. They were brave but foolish. On the other hand, if he went to the offensive, he would maybe have a shot at the Warlord himself and cut the head of the snake here and there.

It was a gambit, of course. Nothing told him that those weapons moved under the constraints he supposed they were, even if he felt he could make a pretty good case in favor of it. Also, he felt to a visceral level that the Warlord would be there and his instinct rarely left him down when it spoke to him like that. Finally, that warlord was challenging just to charge forward and would be ready to welcome him, but the rewards…

In that moment of decision, Imrik showed himself once again for what he was. Arrogant, driven, aggressive, confident, with the instict of a dragon and the courage of a white lion. Many could have called those mix of traits overbearing or reckless, but that was what he was, and what he was had made him one of the most succesfull generals of his generation.

So, he decided.

And the High Elves moved out, toward danger and uncertainty, with courage in their hearts, charging once again in the mouth of the beast.

The Deepkin were waiting for them.

_Atop his mount Rock, Zholk surveilled his soldiers deploy across the savannah._

_He was fiercely satisfied by how disciplinately they wheeled into position, forming into wedges. As soon as the elves scum came into sight, if they came, they were about to be for an ugly ride._

_Anger and hatred returned quickly, and he gritted his teeth. It was like this from when the Shaskar had been killed. It was like someone opened a hole in his gut and that hole periodically tried to fill with sevage water. It was unpleasant, but he embraced the sensations. They kept him sharp and ready. But not all his soldiers would, and a reason of his satisfaction was seeing them move like nothing had changed, like that damned hole didn't exist._

_Oh, but it existed, and the elves would feel it._

_"They come! They are coming!" Zholk turned, seeing a Runter galopping in his direction._

_"Do they have dragons?" He asked when the scout stopped his mount before him._

_"No, Warlord." The scout replied, both him and the Moler panting. "They come on horseback. All of their knights if i reckon right."_

_Zholk kept a straight face, but inside he felt fierce joy rising._

_"It looks like your bluff has worked." Grok laughed, goading his mount to the Warlord's side._

_Zholk grunted. "Better like this. I never thrusted League grinders."_

_"Well, they did their job, haven't they now?" Grok scratched his ear, smile on his muzzle as he adjusted his shield's straps._

_"Bah! Not even a dragon killed! You call that work?"_

_"Ah!"_

_Zholk didn't regret the Pyro-cannons not killing any dragons - the eggheads had said that it was already much that they hadn't blown up -. Pushing them back and wounding them had been enough. Still, he would have loved to have some of those contraptions working right now. He bet that seeing those prancing elven being blasted to bits would have been a lovely show. But three had melted like cakes over the fire and the Mage-Engineers refused to move the other three, saying that the flames inside were in risk of breaking out or some nonsense. That was why he hated fancy technology. In a sword, you could always trust. It didn't risk to blow up in your face if you swung it too much._

_Still, even out of commission, those weapons had done their jobs once again,, meaning to put the fear of the Goddess in those blasphemers and now push them to come out and fight without being tailed by those flying lizards. If a dragon came out, he would have to call the retreat, but like this, like this they could fight at their heart's content._

_Zholk barked some orders, putting his officers on movement. Those that needed to reach their units, spurred their mounts, gallopping away._

_"So, we're doing this, uh?" Grok said._

_Zholk nodded. "We're ending it, now."_

_The Shieldchief laughed. "I like this. Knight versus knight. It feels romantic."_

_"Bah! Romantic!" Zholk sputtered. "Away to the front line with you, and bring your romantic with you!"_

_Grok laughed, and spurned his mount. He gallopped away, still laughing, attracting many eyes._

_Zholk watched him go. Old Grok. He probably was the only one that wasn't affected as deeply as the rest of them. He just was so strong._

_His expression darkened. Romantic? No, never. War wasn't romantic. Maybe giving quarter? Before, they would. They would speak to prisoners, let them go with letters, give hostages, allow for parley, search for understanding, hope for peace. Not anymore. Now, there was only a thirst that only blood could quench. He felt it in his throat and saw it in his soldiers' eyes. They would kill the elves, all of them, with no mercy, until their fur was red and their noses were clogged with the stink of guts._

_Romantic? Maybe he would have thought the same, before, joked about it. Now, he could only think how good it would feel to tighten his fingers around Imrik's neck._

The moon was full that night, its light more than enough both for elven and Skaven sight to see just as well if the sun was up.

It was Imrik this time to choose the battlefield. He had a plain, north of the Skaven position, controlled inch by inch by his scouts and, once it was sure that no trickery was in place, had his cavarly deployed in an orderly fashion.

The Elven knights made for a marvelous sight under the light of the moon. Their ithilmar armors shone with silvery brightness, making look like each of them, knight and mount, was enveloped into light, like it was the stars themselves that formed up upon that plain, come down from the firmament to make battle.

With their deployment done, the elves waited. Not a sound passed through their lines, only the breaths of elves and horses.

First, they heard the vibrations, passing through the earth and to them, making the harnesses tinkle. Then, it came the rumbling. Deep, foreboding, like a storm was approaching. And then, the Deepkin were in sight.

Thousands of them, rank after rank of ratmen atop their strange mounts, a sea of metal and muscle. The mounts were bulky, not even half of the grace of Elven steeds, but they were strong, and their fangs and claws bit deep, as the long weapons of their riders did. A great cloud of dust come after them, like they truly were a stormcloud.

The elves saw, but heard no battlecry no angry chittering. There was only the silence that promised death and that terrible tang into the air, like blood poured over a blade, that terrible wrath. In that moment, many doubted, but none dared to move.

With discipline, the Deepkin deployed. They mirrored the elven formation. A strong center, formed by their heaviest units, with the light cavalry at both sides and two reserve formations behind. No trick this time. It would be a ferocious battle, fist against fist, to the death.

Imrik gave a brief speech, urging his soldiers to stand fast against the enemies of Ulthuan, those that would dare to rob the children of Asuryan of their rightful possessions. He appealed to identity, to nation, to the dreams of empire renewed. He spoke well, covering the ashes of doubt with the flames of determination and pride.

Zholk gave no speech. He had a rider parade before his line with the banner with the name of Zzkrit, all his soldiers bowing to it.

Clarion calls were sounded and each army launched its warcry. The elves shouted, clanking their weapons together, calling for their Gods to give them strenght. The Deepkin let loose a terrible chittering, that single word being repeated over and over again, a prayer of vengeance and hatred.

Orders were launched. The armies set into march.

They started slowly, their mounts setting into a simple pace.

There was no hesitation now, just the shared breathing of horse and knight, Moler and ratman. A tension, settling just in the pit of the stomach. Settled jaws and frowned eyes as one took in the line before himself.

Both formation moved quicker, their steads' pace rising to a trot.

Where before there was only tension, now there was energy, building up, the knowledge of the strenght of one's hand, the solidity of the weapon tightly gripped. It rose, like the air was charging with electricity. It rose.

The trot became quicker, almost a gallop.

Dusts rose and it seemed like the two formations were like thunderclouds, moving against each other. The energy was a crescendo now, a torrent of power raging through muscles, knight and mount alike. It set teeth on edge, sent emotions to a peak. Terror mixed with exaltation, anger with fear. Each front could see the other, and each shuddered at the wall of steel that came thundering against it, at the might that coursed through its veins.

Lances were lowered. Each formation was thunder made manifest now, the wrath of the gods, making the earth tremble. Ratmen and elves, horse and Moler, they shouted and screamed and raged and cursed at each other. And closer, ever closer.

And then, for a moment, everything seemed to stop.

Under helmets, faces could be seen now, expressions made out, pennants and blazons distinguished. Each knight chose his target and held his breath. Silent prayers flew to the Gods.

For a moment, it was like one of those painting depicting glorious war, with the enemies about to clash, their expressions rictus of determination, anger and hatred.

Then the world retook its spinning, and elves and Deepkin met.

The two formations clashed with a deafening sound, enough to drown out the thunder. Mounts and knights smashed against each other, mangled bodies flying into the air. Spears broke against shields, armors were rent, knights thrown out their saddles and trampled underfoot. Elven knights pierced armors straight through with their superb weapons, their lances reaching with pinpoint accuracy eyes and armpit and groins. Deepkin hammered at helms and limbs, breaking bones and smashing mail, their mounts trampling Ulthuani steeds and savaging and mangling them with tooth and claws.

Such was the impetus of the charge that the first lines found themselves mixed together. The Elves threw away broken lances and drew gleaming swords, while the Deepkin moved their longlaives from piercing to cutting.

_Zholk's heart sang with fierce joy as left himself be swept into the maelstrom of battle. The air was thick with dust and blood as all around him his soldiers battled the cursed elves._

_"Kill them all!" He howled, and the Deepkin around him picked up his warcry, making it echo again and again._

_A knight came to him, expression tightened with hate as he thrust his lance forward. Zholk caught the blow on his shield, scoffing at its feebleness. The Warlord brought his longlaive in a wide curve, the heavy blade catching the elf right where shoulder and neck joined. He felt it cut through mail and flesh and bone with satisfaction, then he wrenched it out, a spurt of blood following._

_"Pitiful point-ears!" He bellowed, bringing his weapon around again. He caught the staggering elf in the side of the head, smashing him down from his mount and between the dust, where he disappeared under hooves and claws._

_Zholk let out a proud cry. Ah, how his blood sang! Sweet, sweet revenge at last! He could almost feel poor Zzkrit watching over him from the Goddess' side, her shade rejoicing to long-awaited retribution. Ah, it felt so sweet, that terrible hole filling with blood made into wine!_

_"More!" He howled. "More blood upon the tomb of the murdered!"_

_He barely had to spur Rock as his ferocious mount, sharing his rider's thirst for violence, carried him to another enemy._

_The elf wore a magnificent suit of armor, glazed and polished and enamelled to the point of looking a thing divine rather than mortal, and his gaze was full of noble disdain._

_Zholk charged him with a warcry just as the elf turned his steed to face him, a downed ratman behind him. The longlaive bit the air, meeting a shield with a loud clang. The elf was almost blown away by the brute force of the Warlord, but his mount reacted with superb intelligence and skill, moving like silk to slacken the momentum upon its rider._

_A spear flashed and Zholk grunted at feeling it punch through his armor enough to graze his side, but he didn't waver. Instead, he grasped the haft of the weapon and twisted it out of his flesh and his owner's grasp._

_He laughed at the elf's incredulous expression and, throwing the spear away, spurred Rock to attack. The mount reared up, grasping at the elf's stead with talons as big as shields. The horse whined, trying to escape, but the Warmoler leaned against him with his corpulent bulk, holding him fast. Unbalanced, the elf rider didn't react quick enough to the blow of Zholk. The longlaive caught him right on the head, smashing him down the saddle and sending him tumbling into the dirt with a crack of broken bones._

_Rock forced the horse up and then, by sheer brawn, smashed him down, before crashing its head under his massive bulk._

_A paw over his fallen victim, the Warmoler reared up and left out a chittering howl, echoed by his rider._

_Bloodthirt barely slackened, his heart crying for more vengeance, Zholk turned his eyes upon the battle raging around him, searching for more victims._

The first clash saw the Elves take the worst of it. Their steeds were tough and quick, and their armors heavy and strong, but the Deepkin wore heavier protections and their Warmolers trumped elven horses when it came to weight and brute strenght. Many knights of Ulthuan were killed in the first moments of combat, riders and mounts cloven through with heavy blades or savaged with tooth and claw.

Only in the center, where the Dragon Princes led by Imrik were, the Ulthuani gave better proof of themselves, even Zholk's elite knights struggling to best the scions of Caledor.

Imrik himself was at the fore, his sword a blur as he hacked his way through the Deepkin. His eyes burned with the fires of anger and vengeance and none could stay before him.

As combat devolved into melee, the Elves' superior skills began to tell. Many Deepkin fell to lightning-fast thrusts or dizzling displays of swordplay, their guards and armors breached. But still the Children of the Goddess came, their angry chittering never abating. The center soon devolved into a hard-fought melee, with no clear victor in sight.

There was no strategy here, no quick thinking or manuevers. Both commanders had pointed all their cards over brute shock force and martial prowess, and had joined personally the fight to spur their troops to fight with brutal courage.

It was a thundering clash of weapon against weapon, skill against skill and endurance against endurance, with the two contenders smashing at each other with sheer abandon.

Different situation was on the flanks.

Here, the lighter-armored Reavers had found their match into the smaller Runters. The runts lacked the mass of their bigger cousins, but each of them carried not one but two riders. When the moment of melee came, the second riders jumped down from their mounts, attacking the elves by surprise with long lances. Caught between fighting two enemies at once, many Reaver were felled, brought down by spear and sword.

Dragon Mage Calandrias, on charge of the reserve, saw the flanks falter. Shouting quick orders, he divided his soldiers into two formations and sent them to steady the line, taking personal command of the first.

The Mage unleashed bolts of lighting from outstretched hand as he led the reinforcement into the fray, single-handedly blasting scores of Deepkin to pieces. Under his command, and with bolstered number and resolve, the Reavers on the right flank began to push back the formations of Runters, treatening to open a hole between the Deepkin left flank and center.

Zholk's Chiefs sent in the reserves, but even like that they only managed to slow down the elves' advance. The might of Calandrias, bolstered by the other elven mages with him, seemed to be unstoppable. The Mage-Engineers that tried to attack him had their gouts of flame and fireball smothered by blazing light, before white flame devoured them whole, leaving naught but smoking skeletons.

Steadily, the mage led his knights on, threatening to open a hole into Deepkin formation.

_Grok felled another knight before quickly turning._

_At some distance, the elven mage stood sorrounded by his coterie of warriors and acolytes, a halo of light crowning the group. As he watched, the mage flicked his fingers into a pattern and three bolts of light shoot forward, roasting the dozen of Deepkin trying to push their way to him. More came to replace them, but the elves formed a ring around their master, protecting him even as they kept on advancing._

_Grok pulled the reins of his Runter with a grunt, spurning the mount to charge toward that direction._

_A Reaver barred his way, long sword ready to strike. Grok smashed him out of the way with a blow from his spear's shaft, barely slowing down._

_Keen eyes spotted him coming, and some knights of the mage formation turned to face his charge._

_Grok smashed a spear out of the way and took another clanking against his shield, and pressed on. He pushed his spear forward, feeling it sink through Ithilmar barding as it was butter and then through meat. A knight fell and disappeared, his mount giving out beneath him with a hole through its head. Another replaced him, sword flashing quickly._

_Grok fended off the assault with the bulwark of his shield while keeping the other knight lance at bay with his own. Something flashed in his peripheral vision and he drew back out of instict. The lance that would have impaled his eye clanged instead against his helm, snatching it away from his head._

_He felt the hot air directly on his fur, blood and pain licking a side of his head as the world went hazy for a moment. A lance smashed against his shield, something clanged against the side of his armour._

_Grok gave himself a good shake, and the world returned into focus. Laughter bubbled at the back of his throat and he let it roar to the heavens._

_One of the elven knight hesitated, but the other two didn't. Sword and lance came from both sides, quick as lighiting and just as flashy. Grok parried one and the other and then reposted, quick as a snake. Rageshutter met a knight's chin, punching through armor and bones and emerging from the other side. His shield found a helmeted head, and the elf went limp and disappeared into the dust beneath._

_The third knight blinked, but Grok was already on him. His expression was just changing when Rageshutter punched through his chest._

_Grok threw the corpse away, freeing his spear and charging forward into the encirclement's hole._

_The mage had his eyes on him now. He was chanting, arcane light soffusing his dancing fingers and giving his cold expression an alabaster luster._

_Grok knew that he wouldn't reach him in time. Grinning wildly, he lifted his shield and intoned a single word. The runes branded over its surface flared with wrathful light, just as the mage brought his hands toward him, a mighty curse leaving his lips._

_A forked lightning shot forward, smashing straight against Grok's shield._

_He felt agony surge through his arm, tongues of fire greedily lapping at his flesh and crackling drowning his ears, but he didn't budge. Grinning wider, he pushed forward. The lightning opposed him, but he was stronger and would not be denied._

_Across the lightning's roar, he heard the mage's shout and felt the force opposing him surge. Grok saw the world disappear into blinding light, felt his fur start to fizzle and his whiskers to curl as a tremendous heat sought to pierce his barrier._

_He pushed on, again and again, clutching his spear enough to feel the shaft bend and smiling wide enough that his cheeks hurt._

_He waded into flame and lightning, and then, he thrusted his spear forward, feeling bite flesh._

_The lightning abated, and the heat disappeared. The world returned in a blurry of dark outlines, and Grok had the distinct impression of seeing a shape resembling the mage pulled back form his cohort, a shadowy hand pressed on the side of his neck, from where black blood flew freely._

_Grok noticed this but had no time to make sure that it was so. Another shadow was upon him, and, laughing, he went to tussle with it._

The wound of Calandrias was such that the Dragon Mage had to retreat from the battlefield to seek immediate medical assistance. Without him, the wedge that the elves had driven between Deepkin side and center was first stopped and then pushed back, restabilishing the line of the ratmen.

On the other side, things were looking grim for the Ulthuani. Calandrias had brought with him the bulk of elven mages, hoping for a breakthrough, and now those same mages were embroidered into combat,unable to redeploy. The elves left side found itself undermanned and soon retreating under the pressure of Deepkin numbers.

The Sea Helms in command would have wanted to disengage, but in doing so they would have left the center, still in the middle of fierce battle, exposed. They were forced to stand and fight, taking growing casualties.

In the thick of the fighting, Imrik couldn't see the rapidly deteriorating situation. He had eyes only for the battle raging around him, searching for the banner of the Warlord even as he dispatched an opponent after the other.

Zholk was doing the same, the two commanders searching for each other in the thick of combat, savage anger burning in their chests.

When they met, there was only the istant of recognition and the two charged at each other, their weapons meeting with crushing anger.

Imrik called Zholk a shedder of dragon blood, Zholk called Imrik a murderer and betrayer. They clashed in a maelstrom of angry blows and spouted curses, their mounts dancing around each other beneath them.

Zholk howled the name of Zzkrit, calling vengeance upon her murderer; he told of the Deepkin, of their long-awaited vengeance, of their seeking salvation and how they would have seek for peace with the Elves while now they would have only their blood. Imrik closed his heart to it, still hearing in his ears the roar of pain of his beloved dragons, the death-screams of his soldiers.

As they fought, Rock closed his mouth around the neck of Imrik's mount, holding the struggling horse fast. Imrik was unbalanced and had to grasp at the reins to not fall form the saddle. He parried a blow from Zholk with his shield, then another caught him on the cheek, sending as purt of blood into the air. He wavered as the Warlord brought his weapon around and for a moment it seemed like the Dragon King would meet his end there.

But in him the rich blood of dragons flew thick and Imrik surged forward with a shout of defiance. The slash seeking for his head was deflected aside and his sword flashed forward, impossibly quick, piercing Zholk's defence and then his gorget.

The Warlord fell from his mount and tumbled into the dust, defeated.

_Imrik took a moment to regain his breath. He could feel blood rushing in his ears. For a moment, death had come really close to him, enought hat he had felt its dread talons threatening to reach his neck._

_A choked sound reached him, and he turned to the skaven on the ground._

_The Warlord was holding his neck, blood staining his fingers. He was bloodied and battered, his armor stained with dust and blood, but the hatred in his eyes was undiminished._

_Imrik was surprised of seeing him still alive, but quickly reined his emotions in._

_"Curse… you…" The Skaven said, his voice barely a choked whisper. "Mur… derer…"_

_Imrik watched him, unpassive but for the panting of exertion. He spied a spear jutting from the ground at some distance, and spurred his mount to it. He wouldn't get down from horse to finish this monster._

_The Warlord pawed at his weapon as he returned, fingers too weak to grab hold of it. At some distace, his mount struggled uselessly to get back on its feet._

_"Zz…krit…" The Warlord said as Imrik towered over him, lance raised to strike. Imrik hesitated, remembering the words of the skaven he had killed in the city. "I ha…ve… failed…. you…"_

_The Warlord squeezed his eyes shut, grimacing with pain and wrath even as he accepted his defeat._

_Imrik hesitated, anger wavering for a moment, but then he steeled himself._

_Just then, a shout sounded._

_Imrik felt the air move. He whirled around, just in time to smash a javelin aside._

_Another ratman was galopping toward him, his mount much smaller than the monster of the warlord._

_Imrik snarled and spurred his mount to meet him._

_As they met, he had the vision of a heavy-set, robust ratman in an ornated armor. He wore no helmet and his head was half-covered with blood. Imrik caught his thrust with his shield, even while punching his own weapon in the mount's eye._

_Turning his horse aside, he saw the ratman hurrying to his feet, his dying mount beside him, Imrik's lance jutting from its head. With a cry, he drew his sword and charged again._

_The ratman didn't try to escape. He stood his ground, shield and spear held high._

_Imrik felt doubt assail him again, but pushed it back with anger. His sword came down as he passed, catching the ratman shield and making him stumble. With a mighty shout, Imrik began to pivot around his opponent, making fall a rain of blows upon him._

_"Weak beasts!" He screamed. "For your presumption to fight dragons, for your lies and your wickedness! Die! Die!"_

_His last blow came with all his anger and frustration behind it, so powerful that the ratman's shield cracked and splintered. A spear whistled, and Imrik drew back hurriedly, the weapon coming barely short of reaching his face._

_He stopped, trying to still his breathing. Suddenly, the ratman made a strange sound. Astonished, Imrik realized that he was laughing._

_"Still not getting, uh?" He said, amusement bubbling in his voice. One of his eyes had swelled, forcing him to holding it close. He was almost completely caked in blood, but his smile was strong and firm._

_"We're just like you, fool." He said amidst laughter. "We love our dragons, we cherish them, we argue for them and you can be stay sure that we'll avenge them." He opened his arms wide, laughing loud and clear. "We love to fight and we love to live. We have our destiny to follow and our great fight to fight. We have our longings and our hopes. We are stupid, prideful, pissy, wuss, good, strong, loyal and goddammit you better not make us angry!" He laughed again. "Just like you elves! Just like you, brother! Come! If words don't have gotten to you until now, steell will!"_

_Imrik stood silent for a moment, wide-eyed. A storm battled in his head, that doubt, that horrible horrible doubt gnawing at his anger and determination._

_Unable to bear it, he charged forward, shouting his conflict into the dust-soaked air of the battlefield._

_The ratman threw away his spear and drew a hefty blackjack._

_Imrik swung his sword at him, all his might in that single blow._

_The ratman jumped._

_Imrik saw him soar above his own swing, pivoting into the air to bring the blackjack into a rock-shattering blow that had all the strenght of his momentum. For a moment, he saw everything clearly. He saw the hulking muscles of the ratman, tensed like heavy ropes as they brought that blow home, he saw his own shield raise to intercept._

_His shield was smashed to pieces under the impact, shards of metal and wood flying everywhere. Imrik felt his arm break, splinters jab at his face. Arcane energy rolled through his body, setting it aflame with agony. He screamed, tried to hold the reins, but the sky skidded away from him and the earth rushed to embrace him._

_The last image he had before the impact was the ratman, landing amidst the corpses dotting the savannah. Sadness rushed inside of him. There were so many bodies. Elves and Skaven, all intertwined, made egual in the cold embrace of death, forever embraced, in peace._

_Then, darkness took him._

_When Imrik came back to, it was at the desperate urging of a elf. He watched that face etched with fear for a moment, blinking slowly as his mind tried to remember who and where he was. As memory returned, surprise blossomed. Why was he still alive?_

_Imrik wanted to ask, but found that all his body was coursed by pain and that he couldn't move a muscle._

_The expression of the elf above turned to relief, and he turned to shout at someone outside of Imrik's camp of vision._

_Imrik wondered why that soldier looked so relieved. He sure felt there wasn't nothing to be happy at. The world was simple that morning, with a clear enemy to destroy. Right now, it felt like it had become a lot more complicated._

After the fall of Imrik and Zholk, the fighting had changed dramatically. The elves, their morale already low to begin with, lost their will to fight and started to retreat. The Deepkin, thinking their Warlord dead, went into a killing frenzy, pressing on the retreating Ulthuani and killing many in the process, even as many Skaven died to their lances in the uncoordinated attack.

Eventually, the Warlord, gravely wouded but alive, showed himself to his troops and their terrible anger was replaced by relief, enough that the officers managed to regain control.

By that point, it was hours since the battle had began and both contenders were exhausted.

With tired eyes and aching limbs, Elves and Deepkin took in the corpse-strewn battlefield a last time, before retreating where they had come from. On the horizon, dawn was just starting to paint the sky.

The battle had been a slaughter. Both armies had lost at least half of their numbers, leaving a wide stretch of savannah a trampled ruin covered with corpses.

On both parties' arrival, they found their encampments into uproar. An unexplicable thing had happened. As soon as the first news of the battle had arrived, the scouts had been suddenly been unable to find the battlefield. Where it was supposed to be, a deep fog covered everything, and anyone that had tried to brave it depths had only returned from the point through which he had entered, even without having ever diverted from a straight path.

This had kept going for all night, with both forces completely unable to understand what was happening or how to reach their allies, no matter how many magical means were put into motion.

Now, delight and relief quickly turned to horror at seeing how few returned from the battle. Medical assistance was quickly given to the wounded and the soldiers, weary of battle, retired to rest.

Still, the question remained, along with deep-seated unease. What force had acted during that night? And why?

_The air in the infirmary stank of a mix of unpleasant odors, but that wasn't the reason why Zholk couldn't concentrate on writing the damn report. Nor it was the pain still stabbing his neck, or the layers of bandages keeping him stuck on that cot from a week._

_"Can you stop doing that?" He hissed, lowering the document he had been pouring about._

_Grok watched him with a hint of puzzlement, still going on with his tremendous chewing. He even popped a couple more fried mushrooms in his maw, filling all the room with the sound of crunching._

_Zholk caught himself from crumpling his work there and then just barely._

_He tried to gaze a hole in his Shieldchief for a moment, hoping that the blockhead would finally get it, but Grok just kept watching._

_Zholk sighed, letting all the tension vanish. Damn, he was sore._

_The two remained engrossed into their own thoughts for a moment._

_"How many?" Asked Grok, breaking the silence._

_Zholk grimaced, passing a paw over his face. "Too many."_

_There was nothing else to say. Silence fell once again._

_After a while, Zholk glanced at his Shieldchief, wondering why exactly he had come there. Grok was the type that did things with the regularity of a machine. Wake, training, breakfast, go visit the friends in the sickbay. He was precision incarnate, and that day he had already passed once. Zholk didn't think that he broke his prized regime only to hear things he already knew, even if with precise numbers._

_He watched him, feeling discontent well inside his stomach. He decided that it depended from the fact that Grok had been fighting from the start of the battle right to the end, possibly single-handedly changing its result, and looked barely worse for wear. In fact, amidst the forest of scars covering his body, Zholk couldn't make out any new ones, apart from the bandage covering his head. That didn't feel right, like, at all._

_He was about to ask, fed up with the silence, when Grok closed the bag of mushrooms he had been shoveling down._

_"We got some prisoners." He said, turning his eyes straight on him._

_Zholk barely suppressed the shudder. "Why the hell did you come all the way here only to tell me that?" He grumbled. "Just kill them and be done with it." He tried to sound firm, but couldn't meet his Shieldchief's gaze. There was a question there, an expectation, one that pinned him like a pitchfork._

_On his peripheral, he watched him settle back on his chair, a thoughtful expression settling on his face._

_"How many?"_

_Zholk jumped, and turned to look at Grok fully with a frown._

_The Shieldchief didn't avert his gaze. "How many?" He repeated._

_Grow narrowed his eyes. "Too many." He replied slowly, not understanding._

_"But enough?"_

_Those two words him like a slap._

_Wide-eyed, he made to jump at his feet, but his wounds gave a sharp cry and he crumpled back into the cot with a pained snarl._

_For a moment, the two held each other gaze, the Warlord's full of hostility and anger, Grok's calm and collected._

_Zholk hated it, with a visceral hatred that burned like acid. He wanted to rip those two eyes out of their sockets, wanted to run out that place, shouting that they bring him an axe and the prisoners, he wanted to grab all those elves, drown them into the sea, he wanted… wanted…_

_All his wrath, all his hatred. They drained out of him like blood from wounds. Only that metallic tang on his tongue remained, only the image of a field filled with bodies._

_He covered his face with both hands, sobbing._

_"It had to be done." Grok said. It wasn't an attempt to console him. It was the truth, just that. The crime had to be avenged. And now, it had been, all their bellies filled with the blood of the fallen, for all the good it could do._

_Still, Zholk needed a moment to compose himself once again._

_"Yes, it had." He said. He didn't feel like a mighty Warlord now. He felt weak, aching, tired. "Do what you must."_

_Grok nodded slowly. The hint of a smile appeared on his face. "I thought something funny, you know."_

_Wishing to remain alone, Zholk just grunted._

_"All that business of that night… i think that it was him. You know, to let us work out our anger."_

_Zholk jumped and whirled around, but Grok had already left his seat. The Warlord heard his Shieldchief's steps getting away._

_"I will return tomorrow. Get back on your feet quickly. There is still a lot to do."_

_The door of the sickbay closed behind the Shieldchief, leaving Zholk alone with his thoughts. Only later, he would notice the small, inversed triangle etched into the wood of the cot._

A group of elven scouts, comprising the commander and her sister, had been overzealous during the battle. Trying to ambush Deepkin explorers, they had pursued them too far, only to get ambushed on turn and taken prisoners. These scouts were now sent, tied up like chicken and without weapons, back to their camp. They carried a proposal of cease-fire. The elves would retreat, the Deepkin would do the situation would return as it was before, with the merchants free to come and go as they wanted.

Imrik, forced in bed with many broken bones, thought long and hard about it. Realistically speaking, he could keep going. Yes, his army had suffered fierce losses, but he could use those same losses to ignite hearts back in Ulthuan and have Finubar send more reinforcements. Tyrion would jump at the chance to settle a perceived score, and his judgement would tip many balances in favor of a renowed effort in the Land of Assassins.

Yes, Imrik could, and still… he didn't. Doubt had set roots inside of him. Deep inside, now he feared to have committed a mistake, to have thought monsters those that monsters weren't, to have killed what had not to be killed. His pride stung, fiercely, but he was no fool and his heart had grown heavy with shed elven blood and the doubt of unsleeping nights. He wouldn't admit it, not even to himself, but he longed to return to Ulthuan, to shores where things were less complicated and those doubts didn't gnaw at his soul.

To the surprise of many, he accepted the offer.

Voice ran through the sentries that a veiled lady had been seen pausing before the Dragon King's tent, but none lent it much credence, - no noble lady had accompanied the expedition - and the matter was quickly forgotten.

There was no official parting between High Elves and Deepkin. On a day that the wind and the sea were good, the Ulthuani loaded their ships and, silently and gracefully as they had come, they sailed away. Hidden eyes of Deepkin followed the beautiful ships as they took to the sea. For a moment, as the glare of the sun painted the waves in gold, they had the impression of seeing an elven lady, swathed into flowing robes of silver, watching them silently from the leading ship. In the same moment, elves on board saw a great Skaven on the shore, his massive form cowled and robed, assisting with solemn countenance at their departure. Both parties had the impression that the apparitions lifted a hand, like to greet or to offer regards of safe travel.

But it was just a moment, and the moment after they found themselves blinking at desert shore and empty parapet, wondering what it was exactly that had taken their attention, before that thought too was swept away by other concerns.

Imrik returned home after a quick navigation, the fleet accompanied by exceptionally good weather for all the journey. Carried on shore on a litter, he was welcomed by King Finubar himself along with all his highest dignitaries and a great crowd of Ulthuani. Many chants of mournings were raised for the ships that returned with many less soldiers compared to when they had left, but still a hero's welcome was given to the Dragon King, the Dragon Mage and his brave soldiers, that had returned by bloody war with their honour held high.

To the surprise of many, Imrik didn't hide the fact that his expedition had been a failure, but he carried word of great new tidings in the Southlands, words that King Finubar listened to with great interest.

And it was so that the doubt that set roots into Imrik's heart spread its seeds into many more souls, and which before was impossible, now became wild hope.

Zholk returned to Truzor a hero, his expedition considered a complete success. The losses had been grievious, but how many others would have died if the elves had not been contained and repelled? The Warlord was greatly praised for his efforts and presented with accolades, that he firmly refused. Zholk felt unworthy of them, feeling that he had given in to hatred and anger, forgetting where the right path was. He would go into a period of healing, before being re-assigned to the south along with his soldiers, given an important command post in the on-going struggle against Pestilence. Soldiers working with him said that he had lost nothing of his bad temper, nor of his strenght.

Shaskar Zzkrit's death was deeply lamented, and a great funerary monument was raised in her honour in the Valley of the Honored Dead in Haven. The bones of the revered priestess, conserved by the inhabitants of Abu Hamed, were interred there also and the site became frequented by errant Shaskars searching for guidance and pilgrims.

Regarding Grok, he was given a shiny new medal and a brief leave for his efforts, that he passed writing a small account of the battle on behalf of the office of history. The expedition was always the first contact of the Under-Kingdom with the High Elves, after all, and the first-hand writing of a direct partecipant was highly prized. On his part, he was happy to speak of the battle of Dragon's Blood, as it came to be impropriately called, of the brave Warlord that had led them to vengeance and then returned from it in name of the greater good and, why not, even of the elves, and of even they could sometimes pull their heads out of their arses long enough to see reason, even the most thickheaded ones. But, more than anything, he was honored to speak of the fallen, Deepkin and Elves alike, that, with their blood, more than the dragons', had allowed the seed of wild hope to find good soil, a seed that maybe, one day, will raise to give good fruit, for all of them.


	9. Deepkin Army List: Special Units part 2

**Breezeriders:** Deepkin have a natural distrust for things that fly. They are earthborn creatures through and through, and flying creatures look unnatural to them, while what would repulse a human, like slithering creatures of the deep, evoke no unpleasant feelings in them. Still, the lords of the Under-Kingdom follow a strict pragmatic way and the potentialities of flying troops were too great to let insticts bar the way. So, at their urging, the Leagues worked to unlock the secrets of the sky. The result of their efforts were the Breezeriders.

Soldiers chosen for their skill, high reflexes and deep patriotism, the Breezeriders are furnished with taumathurgic-based harnesses through which large leathey wings are attached to their backs. They form into large formations of clanking and chugging swarm of flyers, acting on the battlefield as a flying force. They don't make for a fierce sight, their harnesses looking patchwork and wings looking fragile, but they pack one hell of a punch thanks to the advanced weapons furnished directly by the Leagues: large Flameguns that shoot fireballs that explode on impact, sending shrapnel shredding anything close to the point of impact, or wicked Deepstone lances and swords to cut down enemies both in the sky and walking on earth. Their harnesses and wings are made of tremendously strong alloys and are powerful enough to allow them to wear enclosing heavy armors produced by the Leagues. Many a swarm of deamonic Harpies thought to have their preys caught, only for the swarmed Breezeriders to cut their way free in a dervish of blades, their armors and wings impervious to their claws.

Breezeriders are figures of awe amongst the Deepkin, who wouldn't admire how they soar into the sky?, and are deeply admired as true patriots to the cause of the Under-Kingdom. Still, in their hearts, Deepkin are creatures of the earth and seeing these brave flying soldiers exhibit into even the most simple of maneuvers is enough to make the everyday Uncorrupted flinch. This has led to the widespread fame of the Brezeeriders as reckless daredevils and unconventional ratmen. But, however they are seen, the vast majority of the Breezeriders don't care: being able to fly and soar is for them recompense enough for any strange gaze thrown their ways.

Their use down the centuries has been limited to the larger caverns, but with the surge of the Ur-Kot they have seen more and more appearances, especially in the rising number of above-ground battles, that allow them freedom of movement unprecedented. Their patriotic streak has only been further fueled by this and amongst them one can find the most enthusiastic followers of the war.

_Of the Mother_

_The Great Root, The Unsullied, Unsmothered Ember, The Spark That Knows No Death, Mother of Mercy, She That Returns, the Radiant Goddess possesses multiple names amongst the Deepkin but she's given the highest honors no matter how She is called. Her domain is hope, defiance, affection, strenght of soul and mind, mercy, sacrifice, memory, sadness, forgiveness, purity, humbleness, death and rebirth. She shines upon the oppressed and the miserly, the corrupted and the lost, the pure and the brave, the children and those that protect the weak. She's a beacon of light amongst the darkness and her favor goes to those that keep hope even in despair. Her symbols are the crescent moon, the stalagmite raising from the water, the crowned fire. Albino rats are her sacred animals. _

_Church's lore says that when the Exodus began, the Goddess invoked a tremendous power from the beyond, so that Her children remain hidden by the evil Gods' gaze, in particular the Horned Rat's. Such was the might she brought into being that her own body and soul were set afire and the Goddess became a pure, bright flame. Terrible pain gripped her, but her will was greater and in that form she held guardianship upon her children. For centuries she endured, but even gods have limits and eventually She waned, her mighty flame turning into a small ember and then into cold ash and nothing more. _

_But that wasn't the end. The Goddess had held guardianship of death in the world of old and her nature flowed amongst both sides of the grave. Death could hold her only for a brief period before She returned, the ash setting aflame once more into a great flame of hope. _

_And so it had been for millennia, the Goddess waxing and waning but never relenting in her ceaseless vigil. Held into flame, her voice became only the rustling of the fire and the Shaskar have to labor to decipher it, but her presence shines all the same amongst her children and they have never stopped honoring her eternal sacrifice. Such God of mercy they worship, singing and dancing and praying to alleviate her pain, laboring to make a time come when She hasn't to suffer anymore._

_The Goddess honors those that respect family, the elderly, children, one's superiors, the social order, if not unjust, and peace. Singing, music, poetry, meditation, prayer, fasting, training, peaceful work, assistance to the needy, all are activities that met her favor. She urges her children to live as brothers and sisters, working to ensure that security and prosperity are spread as much as possible amongst them and that society as a whole advance. Individuality must not be sacrificed, for it would mean to surrender one's soul, only the baser instinct, like selfishness and arrogance, greed and unreasonable lust for power. The Deepkin are already alone amidst a sea of enemies, they must stand together to survive. Her champions are those that sacrifice themselves for the good of the many and, no matter where they are, she sees them and remember their sacrifice. Every act of valor, of generosity and kindness and selflessness, no matter how small or unacknoledged, she sees it and remembers. None can be taken by her memory, she remembers the face and name of each of her children and loves them all without exception. She cannot be deceived, her bright gaze can peer through actions and directly into heart and soul, and no illusion and no lies, be it woven by Daemon or God, can find purchase upon her. She holds guard upon her children's lives and, when the time comes, leads them to their eternal rest. _

_She's the main divinity of the Deepkin Skaven and the only whose cult is both permitted and held as state religion in the Under-Kingdom. While worship of various demigods are allowed, no other divinity can be venerated inside the borders of the Under-Kingdom, on pain of death. But such severity is only nominal and it had never need to be enforced. The Deepkin share a connection to their Goddess that nothing can break, forged upon and going over simple love and gratitude. The Goddess' light has a place in each Deepkin's heart, without exception. They wouldn't ever forsake her, no matter what. This devotion manifest as the omnipresence of the Goddess in Deepkin society. Places of worship thickly dot the Under-Kingdom, from statues at crossroads upon which travelers leave their offerings to massive cathedrals raised into the Great Burrows, which cerimonies attract tens of thousands of faithful. Each Lodge host at least a chamber given to religion and its members will regularly convene to celebrate and pray together, with the eldest female of the family acting as priest. _

_Following this popularity, the Church of the Goddess wields massive political and moral influence upon society as a whole. The Church's upper ranks are composed exclusively of Shaskar, but, while they hold sole possession of the most esoterical knowledge and higher mysteries, the knowledge needed to host basic cerimonies is shared amongst all the ranks of the priesthood, that on turn initiate to it the eldest females of the Lodges, so that they can host simple cerimonies at the family level. No matter the level, singing and music always hold a predominant role. _

_Prayers and celebrations divide the time of a typical Lodge, with the priesthood holding larger cerimonies each seven days. The calendar is also thickly dotted with religious occasions of any kind, culminating with a holyday celebrating the Great Exodus and another celebrating the Lasting Promise. During these events, all the Under-Kingdom will come together, with processions, masses and public banquets. The Deepkin truly are a religious people, right to the bone!_

_It's not to a absent god that they give their devotion. The Goddess speaks costantly with her children, the Shaskar acting as her voice, and costantly watches over them. Countless times, warriors beset on the battlefield have felt Her gaze, aching limbs regaining strenght like under a soothing caress. The faithful revering her name feel heavenly light shine over them, oppressed and miserly begging for succour see the darkness around them pushed away by divine light. Her light shines brightly where the Shaskar thread, their songs calling Her might and love into great miracles of mercy and unyelding strenght. No matter where they will be, no matter what dangers they will face, the Goddess watches over her children. _

_When they returned to the surface, the Deepkin saw the image of their Goddess into the Moon. Unsullied and pure, dying into the darkness and returning in light each time, they saw Her eternal sacrifice wrought into the sky, and started to celebrate it, according their cerimonies to the lunar cycles. Today, the lunar symbology is accepted by the Church, but not the wide-held credence that the moon is the Goddess herself, shining upon her children from the night sky. Still, it's not condemned either, being a powerful symbol of the sacrifice of their Divinity that all the faithful can see, and take succour from. _

**Patriarchs:** A single Patriarch is a terrifying opponent, large enough to tower over a troll, strong enough to smash a shield wall and tough enough to take the charge of a Minotaur without losing ground. When battle comes, Patriarchs and Matriarchs form into squads, their combined might, further augmented by advanced weapons and armors furnished by the Leagues, making them the bane of any enemy.

A Patriarch is no mindless Chaos Spawn or savage Minotaur. His brawn is backed by intellect and skill honed through centuries of training and battle, making each spear thrust as deadly as a cannonball. Each movement is made with economy of effort, pointed to reap lifes as efficiently and quickly as possible. A Patriarch and his brothers and sisters lock shields, march and fight just as disciplinately as any formation of soldiers and this makes every phalanx of man-sized opponents thinking to take them on like children trying to fight brawny adults.

But most of all, a Patriarch's strenght lies in his soul, tempered by the rebirth that he has passed through. The Mausoleum burns away any fear or hesitation, leaving only the laughter and the cold steel. When Patriarchs stand their grounds, their are as easy to dislodge as to unroot a forest of weather-beaten oaks. Their tempered souls gain strenght from each other, the supernatural sliver left in them by their rebirth reacting simpathetically one with the other. If the need calls, they won't budge, no matter the odds. Wounds that should feel them will be nullified by their supernatural physique, spells that should pierce their minds will smash themselves to pieces against their supernatural will.

To the battlefield, Matriarchs and Patriarchs bring the darkness that stand behind the grave and the light of ferocious life. To defend their children, they will fight on and on, forever, until the dawn rises again.

_Daemon Daemon, you better beware_

_The old old rat will come for you_

_Daemon Daemon, you should shake in your shoes_

_The old rat will come to give you your dues _

_Daemon Daemon, you better leave_

_Or at the count of five_

_The old rat will roast you alive. _

_He's old, scratched and beaten_

_But his fur is shiny and his whiskers straight_

_Of the deep deep places, _

_where mushrooms and shadows go to sleep _

_Daemon Daemon, come no more_

_Or he will knock you down at the count of four_

_Old doggerel sung by ratlings _

**Gunpowder siege weapons:** Gunpowder is a staple element of Deepkin military and the Leagues adapted its use to a multiple number of weapons along the centuries. The lords of the Under-Kingdom have imposed a standardization upon them and now a number of main categories can be easily distinguished. Cannons are the most widespread. Long tubes of metal, capable of shooting explosive projectiles with a strenght, precision and explosive power that put catapults and ballistas to shame. Secondly, Mortars. These are larger tubes that shoot high-power explosives into high parables, especially aimed to shred large group of infantry with massive explosions and clouds of shrapnel. Larger of both, the Bombards. These are especially used to bring down fortifications, their massive caliber and the terrible devastations of their projectiles compensating for the slower rate of fire.

While inventiveness is appreciated into the Leagues, the Deepkin commanders wanted for their main armaments to be composed of simpler weapons, easy to repair and use, and producible en masse with relative low cost. This management decision makes the vast majority of these weapons sturdy but reliable, even if lacking the Leagues' most advanced technology.

Smaller, lighter cannons are used for infantry support, pushed into battle by weapon-teams or even used as oversized handguns by Patriarchs, that use them to unleash devastating barrages at close quarters.


	10. Deepkin Army List: Rare Units

_**Rare Units**_

**Mecha-Rats:** Leagues' machinery makes for a fixed presence into Deepkin military, but the special corps of the Mech-Rats bring it to an all-new level.

Selected amongst great warriors that have sustained crippling injuries or from volunteers, these bold soldiers are given mechanical augmentations, consisting into limbs and other body parts replaced with mechanical prosthesis. The replacements usually consist of a strong, over-sized arm that it's used into close combat, an in-built ranged weapon in the other arm, usually a projectile-based type, a central generator that provide energy and a super-heavy technological armor that connect everything together. Replaced legs usually accomodate spring-loaded thrusters or pistons that can be overloaded for bursts of speed. Of course, this is only the standard array. There is a bewildiring number of possible modifications, ranging across spring-loaded weapons, flame and gas-throwers, lightining coils, retractable shields, hidden instruments, additional pistons for more hitting powers or massive guns for devastating firepower.

Equipped with all this array, each Mecha-Rat is less a soldier and more a walking death machine. His strikes are strong enough to crumple steel and his armor cannot be pierced by anything less than a cannonball, while the ranged weapons he bears can punch a hole into a gallopping Chaos Knight, the projectile barely slowing down. All this power comes with a price in resource and maintenance, and each Mech-Rat is considered a true investment by the Deepkin lords, that deploy them with the utmost caution.

Still, when they are unleashed on the battlefield, the Mecha-Rats are truly a force to behold. Clad in their exotic steam-armors, they charge into loose formation, a dizzying array of clanking soldiers, their weapons crackling with power, trailing smoke from their exhaust pipes. Their chittering raises together with the whirling of gears, the puffing of steam and the chugging of pistons. They make for a strange rather than fearsome sight, but once they reach the enemies, the carnage they give out dispel any doubt about their power. Little can be said about a cyborg Skaven that can punch a Bloodletter's head straight off his neck.

All soldiers of extremely high skill, the Mecha-Rats are known for their eccentricities. Maybe it's the wounds they have suffered, maybe it's the trauma for having their body replaced with cold metal, or it's the wild power they now have at their fingertips. Whatever the reason is, Mecha-Rats are prone to introspection, sentimentality and, often, depression. Many of them cultivate at least some form of hobby, be it music or philosophy, a trait that the authorities encourage. In fact, in addiction to the small army of Engineers needed to keep maintenance, a large complement of medics and other personnel is given just to their care, so that they can learn to cope with their new existencies.

Still, whatever doubt gnaw at them, the cause they fight for remains untouched in their mind. The Mecha-Rats are all deeply pious, famously so. In defence of their Goddess, they will charge fearlessly on the battlefield, steam, metal, flesh and soul fierce into the fight against the enemies of the Under-Kingdom.

_Tharrek watched the wall behind the great altar, from where the Goddess' image peered upon Her faithful with a comforting smile. A column of soft light descended from the windows, golden and pure despite the rich colours it had to traverse. _

_Tharrek hesitated, his metal knees scraping against the wood of the pew. He felt divine armony come from the light, an embrace just waiting for him, a blessing that would douse the fire that haunted his war-torn frame._

_He wanted to run to it, to let himself be embraced, but fear kept him. On what merit could a lowly sinner like him step to divine soothing? The Mother gave her love without asking for nothing, he knew that well, and still… _

_The fear of being unworthy, of sullying that sublime light with his flesh corrupted by metal and fire. It contorted his guts into a hard knot and robbed his limbs of strenght. He couldn't… he just couldn't._

_The sound of the door of the church being opened brought him back from his thoughts. He recognized the lithe steps of Warlord Zurak. They advanced into the antechamber, then stopped. The warlord waited for him to finish his prayers. _

_Tharrek thought about it, then nodded to himself. _

_The Warlord came to call him to war. He would anser and that would be his offering. Blood and fire and life spilt upon muddied ground. _

_He gave a last bow to the light, before getting up, the pew squeaking under the weight of his iron frame. As he stomped away, paying attention to not leave indents into the ornated floor, Tharrek asked for forgiveness to the Mother, for the umpteenth time. But he would return, this he woved. _

_Once he was purified from his unworthiness by the crucible of war, once his sinner soul was washed clean by the blood of Her enemies. Then, he would return and let Her forgiveness embrace him. Then, the haunting pain would cease, and he'd pray and cry and shout and rejoice into jubilation, nestled into the bosom of the ever-loving Mother that could forgive even an unworthy son like him. _

**Molerion:** The Moler is the faithful companion of the Deepkin Skaven, and whoever the Under-Kingdom threads the animal is sure to be, working as a pack mule or war mount. It's a partnership that began with the first settlers of Haven and the Deepkin have learned much about this prized creature since. They learned how the Molers are born into large litters, already furred and mobile, and what types of mushrooms to feed the mothers, so that the pups suckling from them grow strong and large. They learned how, when the mating season comes, the males sing, attracting the females to become their mates. They learned much about them, almost everything, and in doing so, they learned how to change them also.

Every time a generation of Warmolers is born, trainers, Mages, priests and herders get together and examine the litters. They search for runts, but also for strong pups. From time to time, they find some that are extremely large and powerful, and bear the signs of the Goddess. These pups are isolated and subjected to rituals, the blessing of the Goddess is called upon them, uninterruptedly. Without fail, the pup start to grow, quickly surpassing every other Moler for size, so much that squads of herders and an entire herd of nursing females are to be given for its care.

When its growth stops, the once-small pup has become a Molerion. A Molerion is large as a building, with paws wide enough to flatten bears under it and claws as long and thick as a spears, so fat and mighty that it can wrestle a Giant to the ground. Thick armor plates, worthy of an armored ships, are fitted to its bulk, making it into a terrifying engine of war. An unleashed Molerion makes for a terrible sight, a ponderous, enormous monster that explode into a frenzy of claws and fangs, moving with a speed that belies its vast size even as it crush everything around it with its massive bulk. In battle, the Molerion are used as extremely efficent shock weapon, shrugging off blows that could pierce a fortress gate even as they smash their way through the enemy ranks, sending broken bodies flying everywhere. Warlords, Ur-Shaskar and Great Fathers are known to use them as mounts, as, to its friends, the Molerion still offers the same placidity of its smaller cousins.

To its enemies, instead, its a true terror, a monster risen from the deep to swallow anything that walks under the sun.

_Turgon knew many things. _

_He knew of love, learned when he was small and young and nestled into the box full of hay, the Little Mothers' beating hearts and warmth close to him. _

_He knew of strenght, learned when he had grown too big for the barn to contain him, and had to go around hunched to not scrape his back against the ceiling. _

_He knew of restlesness, learned when he had to stay still while the Small Friends scurried all around him, cutting his fur and nails so that they didn't grow too much._

_He knew of faith, learned when the Radiant One came into his sleep, singing to him with Her pretty voice. _

_Now, with the noises and the small figures around him, he understands that he knows other things. He feels the Small Friend on his back, shouting his fierceness as he waves his long stick around, and understands bravery. He watches the Red Anger before him, sees the bloodied axe and long whip he wields. The Red in him licks his skin like flame, making his fur stand up, and he understands that he knows of fear. _

_But, he knows other things also, and they are greater than fear. He knows of enemy and of things that cannot be forgiven, no matter what. _

_And so, mighty Turgon rages alongside the Little Friend, and their wraths and spirits are as one. And as one they fight the Monster, for the Little Mothers, for the Small Friends, for the Radiant One that comes when you sleep. _

**Gargant:** The iron pinnacle of the Leagues' technology, the Gargant is a marvel like none other, mixing magic and technology on a scale unprecedented.

Long has gone the rivarly between the Leagues of the Mage-Engineers and the dreaded Warlocks of Skyre. Seeking to outdo their twisted counterparts once and for all and to provide their King with a weapon of unsurpassing power, the Leagues pooled all their resources into a single, colossal project. Their works lasted decades and drained enormous resources, but the the result was a stunning success, the Gargant.

Tall as a Giant, the Gargant is a gargantuan metal construct in a vague humanoid form. It stumbles forward on three legs, steam jetting out of dozens of pipes together with the sounds of pistons, gears and clanking engines. Inside, a small army of Engineers and their assistants scurry across tight tunnels carved amidst the whirling mechanisms, never stopping in their labor to keep the machine under control. As levers are pulled and cranks frantically turned, the iron monstrosity raises its arms, bringing its weapons to bear. The Tesla Conductor on an arm shoot crackling gouts of power that incinerate everything they touch, leaving naught but scorched earth in their wake. On the other arm, an oversized flamethrower spit out liquid death, roasting into ruin all those unfornate enough to get caught by the flames. A series of cannons stand on rotating platforms on the shoulders, while dozens of slits allow for soldiers to fire with muskets and crossbow, effectively making the Gargant a walking fortress.

Such a monster doesn't come cheap and so only a handful of Gargant exist today, but this is only a minor incovenience, as even one of these monstrous constructs is enough to lay waste to armies.

_Mage-Engineer Rrrikit hummed as she peered into the spyglass. Her hands danced on the commands around her like they were possessed by their own life, pulling levers, pushing buttons, rotating dials, never stopping for more than an instant._

_"Ma'am?" Said a startled voice from a megaphone studded into a wall of the cabine. "Tertiary conductor is starting to splinter!_

_"It's okay, it's okay." She replied._

_"Ma'am?" Said another voice from another megaphone. "Second central boiler is starting to lose pressure!" _

_"It's fine, it's fine."_

_"Ma'am?" Third voice, third megaphone. "Cracks into the articulation of the left leg!"_

_"It's fine, it's fine."_

_Rrrikit let out a satisfied chittering, then she grabbed a long microphone and barked into it: "Fire!"_

_Half a second later, the Greater Daemon of Nurgle she had had the displeasure of watching was bombarded by a dozen of cannonballs and exploded with a satisfied squelch, sending guts and tainted flash raining down like an especially gruesome living volcano. _

_Rrrkit conceded herself a moment of stop, laying back against her seat with a relieved sigh._

_"Well, that was a good work. Good job everyone!" She said, then with a cheerful tone: "Now let's bail before this grinder explode!"_

_"You said that it was fine!" Was the simultaneous, startled answer from all three the megaphones._

_Rrrikit laughed. Well, it was going to be fine as long as they managed to make repairs, well, quickly enough, so she hadn't totally lied. And then, just the satisfaction of seeing all those stinkies from up there, and being able to stomp them underfoot, was worthy the danger, as much as she was concerned. _

_Ah, young'uns needed to learn to enjoy things more. _

**The Chosen:** Divine influences wars inside the Deepkin soul, twisting and merging like currents of waters under the surface of the sea. The Horned Rat's mark cannot be escaped completely and each generation sees it rise to the surface. The Oathsworn are its fruits, but they aren't the only ones. Sometimes, the powers of the Mother and the Fallen Father emerge into a far more unstable form, one that not even life-long training and divine magic can put under fetters. Its scions are the Chosen.

From birth, they are different, not in body, but in soul. The Mother and the Horned Rat's influences war inside of them, twisting them with conflicting impulses. As they grow, the Chosen are wracked with peaks of love and hatred for their kin, of thrust unconditioned and unreasonable paranoia. Many go crazy, others survive by isolating themselves, their hearts tearing apart for their forced exile. Only the strongest of will and mind manage to remain close to their families and only these unlock their potential. As years fo by, the energies of the souls around them conflict with their tattered spirits, making the divine influnces surge in growing conflict. By the time they reach adulthood, the Chosen's bodies start to break apart under the strain. Lightnings of power explode from spontaneous wounds, red light comes out from eyes and mouths, fur falls and skin breaks, bleeding wrathful light instead of blood. The Chosen cannot even search for comfort from his kin, as his condition makes dangerous for others to stand around him.

No Shaskar, medic or mage can help them, the warring energies out of the league of any mortal practioner. Only indications for a journey can be given, and these instructions the unfortunate feel resonate deeply with a call they find inside of their souls.

And it is so that the Chosen leave home and family and embark into a pilgrimage. It is a long, hard road, made harder by wracking visions and failing bodies. But no pilgrim accept help or comfort, the call roaring inside of them a sireen call that they don't want to share.

Eventually, they reach an old realm, deep into the earth where light never shone. There, they find a lonely castle, its great doors already opened into welcome. The Demigod Lord Shadow makes its residence there and all pilgrims that come he takes as his own sons and daughters.

Artifices of divine and dark might are wrought inside that black court and when the castle doors swings open once again, the Chosen marches forth, changed in mind, soul and body. The failing wretch is gone, it's place taken by a massive Skaven bound into a ferrous shell of plates and gears and pistons that strides forward. The energies that treatened to rip him apart are tamed into iron certainty, their powers filling his eyes with wrathful light, sparkles dancing around his fists. The very air around him thrums with his power.

With no need for indications, the Chosen makes his way to a battlefield. He appears to the Deepkin camp and, amongst the fear and confusion of his kin, strides to where the Warlord is. To him, he kneels before, wordlessly offering his assistance. That help is never refused, as a Chosen wields power fitting for a demigod. He can single-handedly destroy enemy formations, his blows backed by supernatural might as he crumples armor and bone with hammer-like fists. Enemies foolish enough to attack him finds their weapons breaks uselessly against his armor, or are vaporized by the storm of energies raging around him. Those same energies the Chosen wield to deadly effect, unleashing bolts of pure power that strike with the strenght of the comet even as they explode into tremendous discharges that sizzles flesh and melt metal.

On the battlefield, the Chosen strides like a true god of war, his might such that only the most powerful beings can stand before him.

No Warlord refuse the help from these titans, but much distrust is given their way. More than fear for that terrible power, the Warlords and the Shaskar distrust the demigod that send them to war. Lord Shadow is a mysterious figure in the Under-Kingdom, a divine spirit associated with darkness, hubrys and murder. Little is known about him, but the power of his children makes any magically-attuned skaven shiver, the darkness in it unmistakable. Still, the Goddess speaks for him and the Chosen are too powerful to be passed out, and so that distrust is kept at bay in favor of more practical matters. Many noticed how none of the Chosen has ever even tried to find his way back to his family and home, but none dared to approach the topic until now.

_Ripchik pushed himself up another step and stopped to catch her breath. _

_There was not a single point of her body that wasn't aflame with pain. Every breath was an intake of agony and an expulsion of agony. Pain wasn't only a costant companion. It had become the center of her existence. It had defined her anew, molded her into something feral and dark. Should she return home, she had no doubt, none would recognize her. _

_Ripchik swallowed, her body contorting even to manage that simple gesture, the glob of spit and blob making its presence known all the way back. _

_She leaned against her staff, panting heavily. A stray thought went to her conditions and she repressed a shudder that would wrack her with more pain with practiced ease. _

_She had stopped taking care of herself a long time ago. She hadn't ever replaced the bandages that covered her body from head to toes from that time she had found that her flesh sloughed out with them. Ripchik wondered if they were the only things still keeping her together. Or maybe it was her curse, or the blessing of the Mother. She couldn't bring herself to care anymore. _

_Only the pain and the path mattered. Nothing else had importance. _

_Materially, it wasn't a problem. She seemed to have ascended from the limitations of the flesh. Thirst, sleep, hunger, she had almost forgotten what they felt like. Only the pain and the path. Nothing else. _

_With a stuttered breath, she brought herself up another step. It was enough to sap all her strenght, and she had to stop again. _

_Her vision swam, her thoughts mizing with memories of a blurred past and things that she wasn't supposed to know._

_The Time before the Unification. A would-be King. Thirst, so much thirst. Eternal hunger. _

_She pushed herself up again. Only the pain, and the path. She had to see its end, no matter what. It had started as a promise of deliverance from agony. Now, she barely remembered why she walked, only that she had. _

_She had seen things in her journey in the dark, murals etched where nothing lived, secret meanings hidden into the blood of the earth and the dust of ghosts. And the story it had told her. _

_Thirst that brought more thirst. More than a God. A Kingdom hidden from the light, rejecting light. A King forgotten by history. Songs. Terrible things wrought into the dark and sanctified by blood. Never done before. Blasphemy upon blasphemy. Raising dark, snatching at those that would befoul the world. And then…_

_The stairs were finished. Ripchik found herself on a large landing, cut from stone. A massive set of doors stood before her, opened in welcome, bleeding darkness. And before them a tall figure, darker than dark. _

_"Lord Shadow." She murmured, words coming to her lips without no prompt from her._

_The voice of Lord Shadow was the flowing of river in the darkness of the earth. "Daughter, lost, forgotten, broken. Why have you come?" _

_Ripchik didn't remember, but still words came to her. "Father, i have come home."_

_Lord Shadow watched her in silence, the moment like the endless istant of the buried. He spread his arms wide, and it was like the night covering the world. "Into darkness wrought into darkness and blossomed into hearts, welcome home, my daughter. Your family awaits."_

_Ripchik bowed her head. Letting go of the staff of the pilgrim, she went into the arms of his new father, and into the darkness of the castle. _

_The doors closed, and only silence remained into the ruined Kingdom, waiting for a new prince to come. _


End file.
